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'1133011  SVIOHI 


<1 K V 

Tiajsrav d svkohx 


SMO  J 


3HX 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


THOMAS  PARNELL. 


WITH  A LIFE, 

BY  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


V 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE,  BROWN  AND  COMPANY. 

KEW  YORK:  EVANS  AND  DICKERSON. 
PHILADELPHIA : LIPPINCOTT,  GRAMBO  AND  CO. 


M.DCCC.LIV. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


STEREOTYPED  EY  STONE  AND  SMART. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Life  of  Parnell,  by  Oliver  Goldsmith v 

To  the  Eight  Hon.  Kobert,  Earl  of  Oxford,  and  Earl  Mor- 
timer  1 

Hesiod;  or,  The  Eise  of  Woman 5 

Song,  “ When  thy  beauty  appears  ” 15 

Song,  “Thyrsis,  a young  and  amorous  swain” 15 

Song,  “My  days  have  been  so  wondrous  free” 17 

Anacreontic,  “ When  spring  came  on  with  fresh  delight”.  .19 
Anacreontic,  “ Gay  Bacchus,  liking  Estcourt’s  wine”. . . .22 

A Fairy  Tale,  in  the  ancient  English  style 25 

The  Vigil  of  Venus,  written  in  the  time  of  Julius  Caesar, 

and  by  some  ascribed  to  Catullus 33 

Homer’s  Batrachomuomachia ; or,  The  Battle  of  the  Frogs 
and  Mice,  Book  1 45 

II  53 

III  59 

To  Mr.  Pope 67 

A Translation  of  part  of  the  First  Canto  of  the  Eape  of 

the  Lock,  into  Leonine  Verse,  after  the  manner  of  the 

ancient  Monks 71 

Health;  an  Eclogue 74 

The  Flies ; an  Eclogue 77 

An  Elegy,  to  an  Old  Beauty 80 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Book-worm 83 

An  Allegory  on  Man 87 

An  Imitation  of  some  French  Verses 91 

A Night-piece  on  Death 93 

A Hymn  to  Contentment 97 

The  Hermit 100 

Piety;  or,  the  Vision 110 

Bacchus;  or,  The  Drunken  Metamorphosis 115 

Dr.  Donne’s  Third  Satire  versified 119 

On  Bishop  Burnet’s  being  set  on  Fire  in  his  Closet 125 

On  Mrs.  Arabella  Fermor  leaving  London 126 

Chloris  appearing  in  a Looking-glass 127 


THE 

LIFE  OF  THOMAS  PARNELL.* 

BY  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

The  life  of  a scholar  seldom  abounds  with 
adventure.  His  fame  is  acquired  in  solitude ; 
and  the  historian,  who  only  views  him  at  a dis- 
tance, must  be  content  with  a dry  detail  of  actions 
by  which  he  is  scarcely  distinguished  from  the 
rest  of  mankind.  But  we  are  fond  of  talking  of 
those  who  have  given  us  pleasure ; not  that  we 
have  any  thing  important  to  say,  but  because  the 
subject  is  pleasing. 

Thomas  Parnell,  D.  D.,  was  descended  from  an 
ancient  family,  that  had  for  some  centuries  been 
settled  at  Congleton,  in  Cheshire.  His  father, 
Thomas  Parnell,  who  had  been  attached  to  the 
Commonwealth  party,  upon  the  Restoration  went 
over  to  Ireland ; thither  he  carried  a large  per- 
sonal fortune,  which  he  laid  out  in  lands  in  that 
kingdom.  The  estates  he  purchased  there,  as 

* The  Miscellaneous  Works  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  including 
a variety  of  pieces  now  first  collected.  By  James  Prior. 


VI 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


also  that  of  which  he  was  possessed  in  Cheshire, 
descended  to  our  poet,  who  was  his  eldest  son, 
and  still  remain  in  the  family.  Thus  want,  which 
has  compelled  many  of  our  greatest  men  into  the 
service  of  the  muses,  had  no  influence  upon  Par- 
nell ; he  was  a poet  by  inclination. 

He  was  horn  in  Dublin,  in  the  year  1679,  and 
received  the  first  rudiments  of  his  education  at 
the  school  of  Dr.  Jones,  in  that  city.  Surprising 
things  are  told  us  of  the  greatness  of  his  memory 
at  that  early  period ; as  of  his  being  able  to  repeat 
by  heart  forty  lines  of  any  book  at  the  first  read- 
ing ; of  his  getting  the  third  book  of  the  Iliad  in 
one  night’s  time,  which  was  given  in  order  to  con- 
fine him  for  some  days.  These  stories,  which  are 
told  of  almost  every  celebrated  wit,  may  perhaps 
be  true ; but  for  my  own  part,  I never  found  any 
of  those  prodigies  of  parts,  although  I have 
known  enow  that  were  desirous,  among  the  igno- 
rant, of  being  thought  so. 

There  is  one  presumption,  however,  of  the  early 
maturity  of  his  understanding.  He  was  admitted 
a member  of  the  College  of  Dublin  at  the  age  of 
thirteen,  wrhich  is  much  sooner  than  usual,  as  at 
that  university  they  are  a great  deal  stricter  in 
their  examination  for  entrance,  than  either  at 
Oxford  or  Cambridge.  His  progress  through  the 
college  course  of  study  was  probably  marked  with 
but  little  splendor;  his  imagination  might  have 
been  too  warm  to  relish  the  cold  logic  of  Burgers- 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL.- 


Vll 


dicius,  or  the  dreary  subtleties  of  Smiglesius; 
but  it  is  certain,  that  as  a classical  scholar,  few 
could  equal  him.  His  own  compositions  show 
this ; and  the  deference  which  the  most  eminent 
men  of  his  time  paid  him  upon  that  head,  put  it 
beyond  a doubt.  He  took  the  degree  of  master 
of  arts  the  9th  of  July,  1700 ; and  in  the  same 
year  he  was  ordained  a deacon  by  William,  bishop 
of  Derry,  having  a dispensation  from  the  primate, 
as  being  under  twenty-three  years  of  age.  He 
was  admitted  into  priest’s  orders  about  three  years 
after,  by  William,  archbishop  of  Dublin ; and  on 
the  9th  of  February,  1705,  he  was  collated  by 
Sir  George  Ashe,  bishop  of  Clogher,  to  the  arch- 
deaconry of  Clogher. 

About  that  time  also  he  married  Miss  Anne 
Minchin,  a young  lady  of  great  merit  and  beauty, 
by  whom  he  had  two  sons,  who  died  young,  and 
one  daughter.  His  wife  died  some  time  before 
him;  and  her  death  is  said  to  have  made  so 
great  an  impression  on  his  spirits,  that  it  served 
to  hasten  his  own.  On  the  31st  of  May,  1716, 
he  was  presented  by  his  friend  and  patron, 
archbishop  King,  to  the  vicarage  of  Finglass, 
a benefice  worth  about  four  hundred  pounds  a 
year,  in  the  diocese  of  Dublin;  but  he  lived  to 
enjoy  his  preferment  a very  short  time.  He  died 
at  Chester,  in  July,  1717,  on  his  way  to  Ireland, 
and  was  buried  in  Trinity  Church  in  that  town, 
without  any  monument  to  mark  the  place  of  his 


viii  LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 

interment.*  As  he  died  without  male  issue,  his 
estate  devolved  to  his  only  nephew,  Sir  John 
Parnell,  baronet,  whose  father  was  younger  brother 
to  the  archdeacon,  and  one  of  the  justices  of  the 
King’s  Bench  in  Ireland. 

Such  is  the  very  unpoetical  detail  of  the  life  of 
a poet.  Some  dates,  and  some  few  facts  scarcely 
more  interesting  than  those  that  make*,  the  orna- 
ments of  a country  tomb-stone,  are  all  that  remain 
of  one  whose  labors  now  begin  to  excite  universal 
curiosity.  A poet,  while  living,  is  seldom  an  ob- 
ject sufficiently  great  to  attract  much  attention ; 
his  real  merits  are  known  but  to  a few,  and  these 

* Since  the  above  passage  was  printed  off,  the  editor Jias 
been  favored  with  the  following  communication  from  Mr. 
Donovan,  of  Anson-street,  Liverpool : 

“ In  the  summer  of  1834, 1 happened  to  be  for  a short  time 
in  Chester,  and,  among  other  little  pursuits  to  which  I devoted 
my  leisure  hours  while  there,  I endeavored  to  discover  whether 
Parnell  was  really  interred  without  any  monument  in  Trinity 
Church  in  that  city,  as  Goldsmith  writes,  or  not.  I made  the 
search  among  the  monuments  which  I proposed,  and  made 
also  minute  inquiries,  but  in  vain ; and  I think  I may  say,  that 
no  monument  does  exist.  My  next  inquiry  was,  whether  they 
had  even  any  record  of  his  interment ; and  to  ascertain  this, 
I obtained  permission  to  search  the  Registry.  I examined, 
without  effect,  the  year  1717,  but,  pursuing  the  list,  I found, 
to  my  no  small  surprise,  the  following  entry,  in  its  proper 
order  of  date,  in  the  register  of  interments  of  1718: — 

‘Thomas  Parnell,  D.  D. 

‘ 18  October , 1718,’ 

being  one  year  and  three  months  after  the  time  which  Gold- 
smith mentions  as  the  period  of  his  decease.” 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


IX 


are  generally  sparing  in  their  praises.  When  his 
fame  is  increased  by  time,  it  is  then  too  late  to 
investigate  the  peculiarities  of  his  disposition  ; the 
dews  of  the  morning  are  past,  and  we  vainly  try 
to  continue  the  chase  by  the  meridian  splendor. 

There  is  scarcely  any  man  but  might  be  made 
the  subject  of  a very  interesting  and  amusing  his- 
tory, if  the  writer,  besides  a thorough  acquaintance 
with  the  character  he  draws,  were  able  to  make 
those  nice  distinctions  which  separate  it  from  all 
others.  The  strongest  minds  have  usually  the 
most  striking  peculiarities,  and  would  conse- 
quently afford  the  richest  materials : but  in  the 
present  instance,  from  not  knowing  Dr.  Parnell, 
his  peculiarities  are  gone  to  the  grave  with  him  ; 
and  we  are  obliged  to  take  his  character  from 
such  as  knew  but  little  of  him,  or  who,  perhaps, 
could  have  given  very  little  information  if  they 
had  known  more. 

Parnell,  by  what  I have  been  able  to  collect 
from  my  father  and  uncle,  who  knew  him,  was 
the  most  capable  man  in  the  world  to  make  the 
happiness  of  those  he  conversed  with,  and  the 
least  able  to  secure  his  own.  He  wanted  that 
evenness  of  disposition  which  bears  disappoint- 
ment with  phlegm,  and  joy  with  indifference. 
He  was  ever  very  much  elated  or  depressed,  and 
his  whole  life  was  spent  in  agony  or  rapture.  But 
the  turbulence  of  these  passions  only  affected  him- 
self, and  never  those  about  him ; he  knew  the 


X 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


ridicule  of  his  own  character,  and  very  effectually 
raised  the  mirth  of  his  companions,  as  well  at  his 
vexations  as  at  his  triumphs. 

How  much  his  company  was  desired,  appears 
from  the  extensiveness  of  his  connections,  and  the 
number  of  his  friends.  Even  before  he  made  any 
figure  in  the  literary  world,  his  friendship  was 
sought  by  persons  of  every  rank  and  party.  The 
wits  at  that  time  differed  a good  deal  from  those 
who  are  most  eminent  for  their  understanding  at 
present.  It  would  now  be  thought  a very  indif- 
ferent sign  of  a writer’s  good  sense,  to  disclaim 
his  private  friends  for  happening  to  be  of  a differ- 
ent party  in  politics  ; but  it  was  then  otherwise ; 
the  Whig  wits  held  the  Tory  wits  in  great  con- 
tempt, and  these  retaliated  in  their  turn.  At  the 
head  of  one  party  were  Addison,  Steele,  and 
Congreve ; at  that  of  the  other,  Pope,  Swift,  and 
Arbuthnot.  Parnell  was  a friend  to  both  sides, 
and  with  a liberality  becoming  a scholar,  scorned 
all  those  trifling  distinctions,  that  are  noisy  for 
the  time,  and  ridiculous  to  posterity.  Nor  did 
he  emancipate  himself  from  these  without  some 
opposition  from  home.  Haying  been  the  son  of 
a Commonwealth’s  man,  his  Tory  connections  on 
this  side  of  the  water  gave  his  friends  in  Ireland 
great  offence.  They  were  much  enraged  to  see 
him  keep  company  with  Pope,  and  Swift,  and 
Gay;  they  blamed  his  undistinguishing  taste, 
and  wondered  what  pleasure  he  could  find  in  the 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL.  xi 

conversation  of  men  who  approved  the  treaty  of 
Utrecht,  and  disliked  the  Duke  of  Marlborough. 
His  conversation  is  said  to  have  been  extremely 
pleasing ; but  in  what  its  peculiar  excellence  con- 
sisted is  now  unknown.  The  letters  which  were 
written  to  him  by  his  friends,  arc  full  of  compli- 
ments upon  his  talents  as  a companion,  and  his 
good-nature  as  a man.  I have  several  of  them 
now  before  me.  Pope  was  particularly  fond  of 
his  company,  and  seems  to  regret  his  absence 
more  than  any  of  the  rest  A letter  from  him 
follows  thus : 

11  London,  July  29. 

“ Dear  Sir  : — I wish  it  were  not  as  ungene- 
rous as  vain  to  complain  too  much  of  a man  that 
forgets  me,  but  I could  expostulate  with  you  a 
whole  day  upon  your  inhuman  silence : I call  it 
inhuman  ; nor  would  you  think  it  less,  if  you  were 
truly  sensible  of  the  uneasiness  it  gives  me.  Did 
1 know  you  so  ill  as  to  think  you  proud,  I would 
be  much  less  concerned  than  I am  able  to  be, 
when  I know  one  of  the  best-natured  men  alive 
neglects  me;  and  if  you  know  me  so  ill  as  to 
think  amiss  of  me,  with  regard  to  my  friendship 
for  you,  you  really  do  not  deserve  half  the  trouble 
you  occasion  me. 

u I need  not  tell  you,  that  both  Mr.  Gay  and 
myself  have  written  several  letters  in  vain ; and 
that  we  were  constantly  inquiring,  of  all  who  have 
seen  Ireland,  if  they  saw  you,  and  that  (forgotten 


xii 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


as  we  are)  we  are  every  day  remembering  you 
in  our  most  agreeable  hours.  All  this  is  true : as 
that  we  are  sincerely  lovers  of  you,  and  deplorers 
of  your  absence,  and  that  we  form  no  wish  more 
ardently  than  that  which  brings  you  over  to  us, 
and  places  you  in  your  old  seat  between  us.  We 
have  lately  had  some  distant  hopes  of  the  Dean’s 
design  to  revisit  England : will  not  you  accompany 
him  ? or  is  England  to  lose  every  thing  that  has 
any  charms  for  us,  and  must  we  pray  for  banish- 
ment as  a benediction  ? I have  once  been  wit- 
ness of  some,  I hope  all  of  your  splenetic  hours : 
come,  and  be  a comforter  in  your  turn  to  me,  in 
mine. 

“ I am  in  such  an  unsettled  state,  that  I can’t 
tell  if  I shall  ever  see  you,  unless  it  be  this  year : 
whether  I do  or  not,  be  ever  assured,  you  have  as 
large  a share  of  my  thoughts  and  good  wishes  as 
any  man,  and  as  great  a portion  of  gratitude  ini 
my  heart  as  would  enrich  a monarch,  could  he 
know  where  to  find  it.  I shall  not  die  without 
testifying  something  of  this  nature,  and  leaving 
to  the  world  a memorial  of  the  friendship  that  has 
been  so  great  a pleasure  and  pride  to  me.  It 
would  be  like  writing  my  own  epitaph,  to  acquaint 
you  with  what  I have  lost  since  I saw  you,  what 
I have  done,  what  I have  thought,  where  I have 
lived,  and  where  I now  repose  in  obscurity.  My 
friend  Jervas,  the  bearer  of  this,  will  inform  you 
of  all  particulars  concerning  me;  and  Mr.  Ford 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL.  xiii 

is  charged  with  a thousand  loves,  and  a thousand 
complaints,  and  a thousand  commissions  to  you 
on  my  part.  They  will  both  tax  you  with  the 
neglect  of  some  promises  which  wrere  too  agree- 
able to  us  all  to  be  forgot : if  you  care  for  any  of 
us,  tell  them  so,  and  write  so  to  me.  I can  say 
no  more,  but  that  I love  you,  and  am,  in  spite  of 
the  longest  neglect  of  happiness,  dear  sir,  your 
most  faithful,  affectionate  friend  and  servant, 

“A.  Pope. 

“ Gay  is  in  Devonshire,  and  from  thence  he 
goes  to  Bath.  My  father  and  mother  never  fail 
to  commemorate  you.” 

Among  the  number  of  his  most  intimate  friends 
was  Lord  Oxford,  whom  Pope  has  so  finely  com- 
plimented upon  the  delicacy  of  his  choice. 

“ For  him  thou  oft  hast  bid  the  world  attend, 

Fond  to  forget  the  statesman  in  the  friend ; 

For  Swift  and  him  despis’d  the  farce  of  state, 

The  sober  follies  of  the  wise  and  great ; 

Dexterous  the  craving,  fawning  crowd  to  quit, 

And  pleas’d  to  ’scape  from  flattery  to  wit.” 

Pope  himself  was  not  only  excessively  fond  of 
his  company,  but  under  several  literary  obliga- 
tions to  him  for  his  assistance  in  the  translation 
of  Homer.  Gay  was  obliged  to  him  upon  another 
account ; for,  being  always  poor,  he  was  not  above 
receiving  from  Parnell  the  copy-money  which  the 


XIV 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


latter  got  for  liis  writings.  Several  of  their  let- 
ters, now  before  me,  are  proofs  of  this ; and  as 
they  have  never  appeared  before,  it  is  probable 
the  reader  will  be  much  better  pleased  with  their 
idle  effusions,  than  with  any  thing  I can  hammer 
out  for  his  amusement. 

“ Binfield,  near  Oakingham,  Tuesday. 

“ Dear  Sir  : — I believe  the  hurry  you  were 
in  hindered  your  giving  me  a word  by  the  last 
post,  so  that  I am  yet  to  learn  whether  you  got 
well  to  town,  or  continue  so  there.  I very  much 
fear  both  for  your  health  and  your  quiet ; and  no 
man  living  can  be  more  truly  concerned  in  any 
thing  that  touches  either  than  myself.  I would 
comfort  myself,  however,  with  hoping,  that  your 
business  may  not  be  unsuccessful,  for  your  sake ; 
and  that  at  least  it  may  soon  be  put  into  other 
proper  hands.  For  my  own,  I beg  earnestly  of 
you  to  return  to  us  as  soon  as  possible.  You 
know  how  very  much  I want  you ; and  that,  how- 
ever your  business  may  depend  on  any  other,  my 
business  depends  entirely  upon  you ; and  yet  still 
I hope  you  will  find  your  man,  even  though  I 
lose  you  the  mean  while.  At  this  time,  the  more 
I love  you,  the  more  I can  spare  you ; which 
alone  will,  I dare  say,  be  a reason  to  you  to  let 
me  have  you  back  the  sooner. 

“ The  minute  I lost  you,  Eustathius,  with  nine 
hundred  pages  and  nine  thousand  contradictions 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XV 


of  the  Greek  characters,  arose  to  view ! Sponda- 
nus,  with  all  his  auxiliaries,  in  number  a thousand 
pages  (value  three  shillings),  and  Dacier’s  three 
volumes,  Barnes’s  two,  Yalterie’s  three,  Cuperus, 
half  in  Greek,  Leo  Allatus,  three  parts  in  Greek, 
Scaliger,  Macrobius,  and  (worse  than  all)  Aulus 
Gellius  ! All  these  rushed  upon  my  soul  at  once, 
and  whelmed  me  under  a fit  of  the  headache.  I 
cursed  them  all  religiously,  damned  my  best  friends 
among  the  rest,  and  even  blasphemed  Homer  him- 
self. 

“ Dear  sir,  not  only  as  you  are  a friend,  and  a 
good-natured  man,  but  as  you  are  a Christian  and 
a divine,  come  back  speedily,  and  prevent  the  in- 
crease of  my  sins ; for,  at  the  rate  I have  begun 
to  rave,  I shall  not  only  damn  all  the  poets  and 
commentators  who  have  gone  before  me,  but  be 
damned  myself  by  all  who  come  after  me.  To 
be  serious ; you  have  not  only  left  me  to  the  last 
degree  impatient  for  your  return,  who  at  all  times 
should  have  been  so  (though  never  so  much  as 
since  I knew  you  in  the  best  health  here),  but 
you  have  wrought  several  miracles  upon  our 
family;  you  have  made  old  people  fond  of  a 
young  and  gay  person,  and  inveterate  papists  of 
a clergyman  of  the  church  of  England;  even 
nurse  herself  is  in  danger  of  being  in  love  in  her 
old  age,  and  (for  all  I know)  would  even  marry 
Dennis  for  your  sake,  because  he  is  your  man, 
and  loves  his  master.  In  short,  come  down  forth- 


XVI 


LIFE  OF  TARNELL. 


with,  or  give  me  good  reasons  for  delaying,  though 
but  a day  or  two,  by  the  next  post.  If  I find  them 
just,  I will  come  up  to  you,  though  you  know 
how  precious  my  time  is  at  present:  my  hours 
were  never  worth  so  much  money  before ; but 
perhaps  you  are  not  sensible  of  this,  who  give 
away  your  own  works.  You  are  a generous 
author ; I a hackney  scribbler : you  a Grecian, 
and  bred  at  a university ; I a poor  Englishman, 
of  my  own  educating:  you  a reverend  parson, 
I a wag ; in  short,  you  are  Dr.  Parnelle  (with  an 
e at  the  end  of  your  name,)  and  I,  your  most 
obliged  and  affectionate  friend  and  faithful  ser- 
vant, A.  Pope. 

“ My  hearty  service  to  the  Dean,  Dr.  Arbuth- 
not,  Mr.  Ford,  and  the  true  genuine  shepherd, 
J.  Gay  of  Devon.  I expect  him  down  with  you.” 

We  may  easily  perceive  by  this,  that  Parnell 
was  not  a little  necessary  to  Pope  in  conducting 
his  translation;  however,  he  has  worded  it  so 
ambiguously,  that  it  is  impossible  to  bring  the 
charge  directly  against  him.  But  he  is  much 
more  explicit  when  he  mentions  his  friend  Gay’s 
obligations  in  another  letter,  which  he  takes  no 
pains  to  conceal. 

“ Dear  Sir  : — I write  to  you  with  the  same 
warmth,  the  same  zeal  of  good-will  and  friend- 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XVII 


ship,  with  which  1 used  to  converse  with  you  two 
years  ago,  and  can’t  think  myself  absent,  when  I 
feel  you  so  much  at  my  heart.  The  picture  of 
you  which  Jervas  brought  me  over,  is  infinitely 
less  lively  a representation  than  that  I carry 
about  with  me,  and  which  rises  to  my  mind  when- 
ever I think  of  you.  I have  many  an  agreeable 
reverie  through  those  woods  and  downs  where 
we  once  rambled  together ; my  head  is  sometimes 
at  the  Bath,  and  sometimes  at  Letcomb,  where 
the  Dean  makes  a great  part  of  my  imaginary 
entertainment,  this  being  the  cheapest  way  of 
treating  me ; I hope  he  will  not  be  displeased  at 
this  manner  of  paying  my  respects  to  him,  instead 
of  following  my  friend  Jervas’s  example,  which, 
to  say  the  truth,  I have  as  much  inclination  to  do 
as  I want  ability. 

“I  have  been  ever  since  December  last  in 
greater  variety  of  business  than  any  such  men  as 
you  (that  is,  divines  and  philosophers)  can  possibly 
imagine  a reasonable  creature  capable  of.  Gay’s 
play,  among  the  rest,  has  cost  much  time  and  long- 
suffering,  to  stem  a tide  of  malice  and  party,  that 
certain  authors  have  raised  against  it;  the  best 
revenge  on  such  fellows  is  now  in  my  hands,  I 
mean  your  Zoilus,  which  really  transcends  the 
expectations  I had  conceived  of  it.  I have  put 
it  into  the  press,  beginning  with  the  poem  Batra- 
chom;  for  you  seem,  by  the  first  paragraph  of 
the  dedication  of  it,  to  design  to  prefix  the  name 

B 


XV111 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


of  some  particular  person.  I beg,  therefore,  to 
know  for  whom  you  intend  it,  that  the  publication 
may  not  be  delayed  on  this  account,  and  this  as 
soon  as  is  possible.  Inform  me,  also,  upon  what 
terms  I am  to  deal  with  the  bookseller,  and 
whether  you  design  the  copy-money  for  Gay,  as 
you  formerly  talked ; what  number  of  books  you 
would  have  yourself,  &c.  I scarcely  see  any  thing 
to  be  altered  in  this  whole  piece ; in  the  poems 
you  sent  I will  take  the  liberty  you  allow  me: 
the  story  of  Pandora,  and  the  Eclogue  upon 
Health,  are  two  of  the  most  beautiful  things  I 
ever  read.  I do  not  say  this  to  the  prejudice  of 
the  rest,  but  as  I have  read  these  oftener.  Let 
me  know  how  far  my  commission  is  to  extend, 
and  be  confident  of  my  punctual  performance  of 
whatever  you  enjoin.  I must  add  a paragraph 
on  this  occasion  in  regard  to  Mr.  Ward,  whose 
verses  have  been  a great  pleasure  to  me ; I will 
contrive  they  shall  be  so  to  the  world,  whenever 
I can  find  a proper  opportunity  of  publishing 
them. 

u I shall  very  soon  print  an  entire  collection  of 
my  own  madrigals,  which  I look  upon  as  making 
my  last  will  and  testament,  since  in  it  I shall  give 
all  I ever  intend  to  give  (which  I ’ll  beg  yours 
and  the  Dean’s  acceptance  of).  You  must  look 
on  me  no  more  a poet,  but  a plain  commoner, 
who  lives  upon  his  own,  and  fears  and  flatters  no 
man.  I hope  before  I die  to  discharge  the  debt  I 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XJX 


owe  to  Homer,  and  get  upon  the  whole  just  fame 
enough  to  serve  for  an  annuity  for  my  own  time, 
though  I leave  nothing  to  posterity. 

“ I beg  our  correspondence  may  be  more  fre- 
quent than  it  has  been  of  late.  I am  sure  my 
esteem  and  love  for  you  never  more  deserved  it 
from  you,  or  more  prompted  it  from  you.  I 
desired  our  friend  Jervas  (in  the  greatest  hurry 
of  my  business)  to  say  a great  deal  in  my  name, 
both  to  yourself  and  the  Dean,  and  must  once 
more  repeat  the  assurances  to  you  both,  of  an 
unchanging  friendship  and  unalterable  esteem. 
I am,  dear  sir,  most  entirely,  your  affectionate, 
faithful,  obliged  friend  and  servant, 

“A.  Pope.” 

From  these  letters  to  Parnell,  we  may  con- 
clude, as  far  as  their  testimony  can  go,  that  he 
was  an  agreeable,  a generous,  and  a sincere  man. 
Indeed,  he  took  care  that  his  friends  should  always 
see  him  to  the  best  advantage ; for,  when  he  found 
his  fits  of  spleen  and  uneasiness,  which  sometimes 
lasted  for  weeks  together,  returning,  he  returned 
with  all  expedition  to  the  remote  parts  of  Ireland, 
and  there  made  out  a gloomy  kind  of  satisfaction, 
in  giving  hideous  descriptions  of  the  solitude  to 
which  he  retired.  It  is  said  of  a famous  painter, 
that,  being  confined  in  prison  for  debt,  his  whole 
delight  consisted  in  drawing  the  faces  of  his 
creditors  in  caricature.  It  was  just  so  with  Par- 


XX 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


nell.  From  many  of  his  unpublished  pieces 
which  I have  seen,  and  from  others  that  have 
appeared,  it  would  seem  that  scarcely  a bog  in 
his  neighbourhood  was  left  without  reproach,  and 
scarcely  a mountain  reared  its  head  unsung.  “ I 
can  easily,”  says  Pope,  in  one  of  his  letters,  in 
answer  to  a dreary  description  of  Parnell’s,  “ I 
can  easily  image  to  my  thoughts  the  solitary 
hours  of  your  eremitical  life  in  the  mountains, 
for  some  parallel  to  it  in  my  own  retirement  at 
Binfield:”  and  in  another  place,  “We  are  both 
miserably  enough  situated,  God  knows ; but  of 
the  two  evils,  I think  the  solitudes  of  the  South 
are  to  be  preferred  to  the  deserts  of  the  West.” 
In  this  manner  Pope  answered  him  in  the  tone 
of  his  own  complaints ; and  these  descriptions  of 
the  imagined  distress  of  his  situation  served  to 
give  him  a temporary  relief:  they  threw  off  the 
blame  from  himself,  and  laid  upon  fortune  and 
accident  a wretchedness  of  his  own  creating. 

But  though  this  method  of  quarrelling  in  his 
poems  with  his  situation,  served  to  relieve  him- 
self, yet  it  was  not  easily  endured  by  the  gentle- 
men of  the  neighborhood,  who  did  not  care  to 
confess  themselves  his  fellow-sufferers.  He  re- 
ceived many  mortifications  upon  that  account 
among  them;  for,  being  naturally  fond  of  com- 
pany, he  could  not  endure  to  be  without  even 
theirs,  which,  however,  among  his  English  friends 
he  pretended  to  despise.  In  fact,  his  conduct,  in 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XXI 


this  particular,  was  rather  splenetic  than  wise; 
he  had  either  lost  the  art  to  engage,  or  did  not 
employ  his  skill  in  securing  those  more  per- 
manent, though  more  humble  connections,  and 
sacrificed  for  a month  or  two  in  England,  a 
whole  year’s  happiness  by  his  country  fireside  at 
home. 

However,  what  he  permitted  the  world  to  see 
of  his  life  was  elegant  and  splendid ; his  fortune 
(for  a poet)  was  very  considerable,  and  it  may 
easily  be  supposed  he  lived  to  the  very  extent  of 
it.  The  fact  is,  his  expenses  were  greater  than 
his  income,  and  his  successor  found  the  estate 
somewhat  impaired  at  his  decease.  As  soon  as 
ever  he  had  collected  in  his  annual  revenues,  he 
immediately  set  out  for  England,  to  enjoy  the 
company  of  his  dearest  friends,  and  laugh  at  the 
more  prudent  world  that  were  minding  business 
and  gaining  money.  The  friends  to  whom,  during 
the  latter  part  of  his  life,  he  was  chiefly  attached, 
were  Pope,  Swift,  Arbuthnot,  Jervas,  and  Gay. 
Among  these  he  was  particularly  happy ; his 
mind  was  entirely  at  ease,  and  gave  a-loose  to 
every  harmless  folly  that  came  uppermost.  In- 
deed, it  was  a society  in  which,  of  all  others,  a 
wise  man  might  be  most  foolish,  without  incurring 
any  danger  or  contempt.  Perhaps  the  reader 
will  be  pleased  to  see  a letter  to  him  from  a part 
of  this  junto,  as  there  is  something  striking  even 
in  the  levities  of  genius.  It  comes  from  Gay, 


xxu 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


Jervas,  Arbuthnot,  and  Pope,  assembled  at  a 
chop-house  near  the  Exchange,  and  is  as  fol- 
lows : 

66  My  dear  Sir  : — I was  last  summer  in  Devon- 
shire, and  am  this  winter  at  Mrs.  Bonyer’s.  In 
the  summer  I wrote  a poem,  and  in  the  winter  I 
have  published  it,  which  I have  sent  to  you  by 
Dr.  Ellwood.  In  the  summer  I ate  two  dishes 
of  toad-stools,  of  my  own  gathering,  instead  of 
mushrooms ; and  in  the  winter  I have  been  sick 
with  wine,  as  I am  at  this  time,  blessed  be  God 
for  it!  as  I must  bless  God  for  all  things.  In 
the  summer  I spoke  truth  to  damsels;  in  the 
winter  I told  lies  to  ladies.  Now  you  know 
where  I have  been,  and  what  I have  done,  I 
shall  tell  you  what  I intend  to  do  the  ensuing 
summer ; I propose  to  do  the  same  thing  I did 
last,  which  was  to  meet  you  in  any  part  of 
England  you  would  appoint;  don’t  let  me  have 
two  disappointments.  I have  longed  to  hear 
from  you,  and  to  that  intent  I teased  you  with 
three  or  four  letters ; but,  having  no  answer,  I 
feared  both  yours  and  my  letters  might  have 
miscarried.  I hope  my  performance  will  please 
the  Dean,  whom  I often  wished  for,  and  to 
whom  I would  have  often  wrote,  but  for  the 
same  reasons  I neglected  writing  to  you.  I 
hope  I need  not  tell  you  how  I love  you,  and 
how  glad  I shall  be  to  hear  from  you;  which, 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


xxiii 


next  to  the  seeing  you,  would  be  the  greatest 
satisfaction  to  your  most  affectionate  friend  and 
humble  servant,  J.  G.” 

“ Dear  Mr.  Archdeacon: — Though  my  pro- 
portion of  this  epistle  should  be  but  a sketch  in 
miniature,  yet  I take  up  this  half  page,  having 
paid  my  club  with  the  good  company  both  for 
our  dinner  of  chops  and  for  this  paper.  The 
poets  will  give  you  lively  descriptions  in  their 
way ; I shall  only  acquaint  you  with  that  which 
is  directly  my  province.  I have  just  set  the  last 
hand  to  a couplet ; for  so  I may  call  two  nymphs 
in  one  piece.  They  are  Pope’s  favourites,  and 
though  few,  you  will  guess  must  have  cost  me 
more  pains  than  any  nymphs  can  be  worth.  He 
has  been  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect  that  I 
should  have  made  them  as  beautiful  upon  canvas 
as  he  has  done  upon  paper.  If  this  same  Mr.  P. 
should  omit  to  write  for  the  dear  frogs,  and  the 
Pervigilium,  I must  entreat  you  not  to  let  me  lan- 
guish for  them,  as  I have  done  ever  since  they 
have  crossed  the  seas : remember  by  what  neg- 
lects, &c.,  we  missed  them  when  we  lost  you,  and 
therefore  I have  not  yet  forgiven  any  of  those 
triflers  that  let  them  escape  and  run  those  hazards. 
I am  going  on  at  the  old  rate,  and  want  you  and 
the  Dean  prodigiously,  and  am  in  hopes  of  making 
you  a visit  this  summer,  and  of  hearing  from  you 
both,  now  you  are  together.  Fortescue,  I am 


XXIV 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


sure,  will  be  concerned  that  he  is  not  in  Cornhill, 
to  set  his  hand  to  these  presents,  not  only  as  a 
witness,  but  as  a serviteur  tres-humble , 

“ C . Jervas.” 

“ It  is  so  great  an  honour  to  a poor  Scotchman 
to  be  remembered  at  this  time  of  day,  especially 
by  an  inhabitant  of  the  Glacialis  Ierne,  that  I 
take  it  very  thankfully,  and  have,  with  my  good 
friends,  remembered  you  at  our  table  in  the  chop- 
house  in  Exchange-alley.  There  wanted  nothing 
to  complete  our  happiness  but  your  company, 
and  our  dear  friend  the  Dean’s.  I am  sure  the 
whole  entertainment  would  have  been  to  his 
relish.  Gay  has  got  so  much  money  by  his  ‘Art 
of  Walking  the  Streets,’  that  he  is  ready  to  set 
up  his  equipage ; he  is  just  going  to  the  Bank  to 
negotiate  some  exchange-bills.  Mr.  Pope  delays 
his  second  volume  of  his  Homer  till  the  martial 
spirit  of  the  rebels  is  quite  quelled ; it  being  judged 
that  the  first  part  did  some  harm  that  way.  Our 
love  again  and  again  to  the  dear  Dean.  Fuimus 
torys , I can  say  no  more.  Arbuthnot.” 

“ When  a man  is  conscious  that  he  does  no  good 
himself,  the  next  thing  is  to  cause  others  to  do 
some.  I may  claim  some  merit  this  way,  in 
hastening  this  testimonial  from  your  friends  above- 
writing : their  love  to  you  indeed  wants  no  spur, 
their  ink  wants  no  pen,  their  pen  wants  no  hand, 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XXV 


their  hand  wants  no  heart,  and  so  forth,  (after 
the  manner  of  Rabelais,  which  is  betwixt  some 
meaning  and  no  meaning)  ; and  yet  it  may  be 
said,  when  present  thought  and  opportunity  is 
wanting,  their  pens  want  ink,  their  hands  want 
pens,  their  hearts  want  hands,  &c.,  till  time,  place, 
and  conveniency  concur  to  set  them  writing,  as 
at  present,  a sociable  meeting,  a good  dinner, 
warm  fire,  and  an  easy  situation  do,  to  the  joint 
labour  and  pleasure  of  this  epistle. 

“ Wherein  if  I should  say  nothing  I should  say 
much,  (much  being  included  in  my  love,)  though 
my  love  be  such,  that  if  I should  say  much,  I 
should  yet  say  nothing,  it  being  (as  Cowley  says) 
equally  impossible  either  to  conceal  or  to  ex- 
press it. 

“ If  I were  to  tell  you  the  thing  I wish  above 
all  things,  it  is  to  see  you  again ; the  next  is  to 
see  here  your  treatise  of  Zoilus,  with  the  Batra- 
chomuomachia,  and  the  Pervigilium  Yeneris,  both 
of  which  poems  are  master-pieces  in  several  kinds ; 
and  I question  not  the  prose  is  as  excellent  in  its 
sort  as  the  Essay  on  Homer.  Nothing  can  be 
more  glorious  to  that  great  author,  than  that  the 
same  hand  that  raised  his  best  statue,  and  decked 
it  with  its  old  laurels,  should  also  hang  up  the 
scarecrow  of  his  miserable  critic,  and  gibbet  up 
the  carcass  of  Zoilus,  to  the  terror  of  the  witlings 
of  posterity.  More,  and  much  more,  upon  this 
and  a thousand  other  subjects,  will  be  the  matter 


XXVI 


LIFE  OF  PAJINELL. 


of  my  next  letter,  wherein  I must  open  all  the 
friend  to  3^ou.  At  this  time  I must  be  content 
with  telling  you,  I am  faithfully  your  most  affec- 
tionate and  humble  servant,  A.  Pope.” 

If  we  regard  this  letter  with  a critical  eye,  we 
must  find  it  indifferent  enough ; if  we  consider  it 
as  a mere  effusion  of  friendship,  in  which  every 
writer  contended  in  affection,  it  will  appear  much 
to  the  honour  of  those  who  wrote  it.  To  be 
mindful  of  an  absent  friend  in  the  hours  of  mirth 
and  feasting,  when  his  company  is  least  wanted, 
shows  no  slight  degree  of  sincerity.  Yet  probably 
there  was  still  another  motive  for  writing  thus  to 
him  in  conjunction.  The  above  named,  together 
with  Swift  and  Parnell,  had  some  time  before 
formed  themselves  into  a society,  called  the  Scrib- 
blerus  Club,  and  I should  suppose  they  comme- 
morated him  thus,  as  being  an  absent  member. 

It  is  past  a doubt  that  they  wrote  many  things 
in  conjunction,  and  Gay  usually  held  the  pen; 
and  yet  I do  not  remember  any  productions  which 
were  the  joint  effort  of  this  society,  as  doing  it 
honour. 

There  is  something  feeble  and  quaint  in  all 
their  attempts,  as  if  company  repressed  thought, 
and  genius  wanted  solitude  for  its  boldest  and 
happiest  exertions.  Of  those  productions  in  which 
Parnell  had  a principal  share,  that  of  the  Origin 
of  the  Sciences  from  the  Monkeys  in  Ethiopia, 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XXV11 


is  particularly  mentioned  by  Pope  himself,  in 
some  manuscript  anecdotes  which  he  left  behind 
him.*  The  Life  of  Homer,  also,  prefixed  to  the 
translation  of  the  Iliad,  is  written  by  Parnell  and 

t 

corrected  by  Pope ; and,  as  that  great  poet  assures 
us  in  the  same  place,  this  correction  was  not 
effected  without  great  labour.  “ It  is  still  stiff,” 
says  he,  “ and  was  written  still  stiffer ; as  it  is,  I 
verily  think  it  cost  me  more  pains  in  the  correct- 
ing than  the  writing  it  would  have  done.”  t All 
this  may  be  easily  credited ; for  every  thing  of 
Parnell’s  that  has  appeared  in  prose,  is  written 
in  a very  awkward,  inelegant  manner.  It  is 
true,  his  productions  teem  with  imagination,  and 
show  great  learning;  but  they  want  that  ease 
and  sweetness  for  which  his  poetry  is  so  much 
admired,  and  the  language  is  also  shamefully  in- 
correct. Yet,  though  all  this  must  be  allowed, 
Pope  should  have  taken  care  not  to  leave  his 
errors  upon  record  against  him,  or  put  it  in  the 
power  of  envy  to  tax  his  friend  with  faults  that 
do  not  appear  in  what  he  has  left  to  the  world. 
A poet  has  a right  to  expect  the  same  secrecy  in 
his  friend  as  in  his  confessor;  the  sins  he  dis- 
covers are  not  divulged  for  punishment  but  par- 
don. Indeed,  Pope  is  almost  inexcusable  in  this 


* [“  The  Origin  of  the  Sciences  from  the  Monkeys  in  Ethi- 
opia, was  written  by  me,  Dean  Parnell,  and  Dr.  Arbuthnot.” 
Pope:  Spence’s  Anecdotes,  p.  201.  Singer’s  edit.  1820.] 
f [Spence’s  Anecdotes,  p.  138.] 


XXV111 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


instance,  as  what  he  seems  to  condemn  in  one 
place  he  very  much  applauds  in  another.  In  one 
of  the  letters  from  him  to  Parnell,  above-men- 
tioned, he  treats  the  Life  of  Homer  with  much 
greater  respect,  and  seems  to  say,  that  the  prose 
is  excellent  in  its  kind.  It  must  be  confessed, 
however,  that  he  is  by  no  means  inconsistent: 
what  he  says  in  both  places  may  very  easily  be 
reconciled  to  truth  ; but  who  can  defend  his  can- 
dour and  sincerity  ? 

It  would  be  hard,  however,  to  suppose  that 
there  was  no  real  friendship  between  these  great 
men.  The  benevolenc!  of  Parnell’s  disposition 
remains  unimpeached ; and  Pope,  though  subject 
to  starts  of  passion  and  envy,  yet  never  missed 
an  opportunity  of  being  truly  serviceable  to  him. 
The  commerce  between  them  was  carried  on  to 
the  common  interest  of  both.  When  Pope  had 
a Miscellany  to  publish,  he  applied  to  Parnell 
for  poetical  assistance,  and  the  latter  as  implicitly 
submitted  to  him  for  correction.  Thus  they  mu- 
tually advanced  each  other’s  interest  or  fame,  and 
grew  stronger  by  conjunction.  Nor  was  Pope 
the  only  person  to  whom  Parnell  had  recourse 
for  assistance.  We  learn  from  Swift’s  letters  to 
Stella,  that  he  submitted  his  pieces  to  all  his 
friends,  and  readily  adopted  their  alterations. 
Swift,  among  the  number,  was  very  useful  to 
him  in  that  particular ; and  care  has  been  taken 
that  the  world  should  not  remain  ignorant  of  the 
obligation. 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XXIX 


But  in  the  connection  of  wits,  interest  lias 
generally  very  little  share ; they  have  only  plea- 
sure in  view,  and  can  seldom  find  it  but  among 
each  other.  The  Scribblerus  Club,  when  the 
members  were  in  town,  were  seldom  asunder; 
and  they  often  made  excursions  together  into  the 
country,  and  generally  on  foot.  Swift  was  usually 
the  butt  of  the  company ; and  if  a trick  was  played 
he  was  always  the  sufferer.  The  whole  party 
once  agreed  to  walk  down  to  the  house  of  Lord 

B ,*  who  is  still  living,  and  whose  seat  is 

about  twelve  miles  from  town.  As  every  one 
agreed  to  make  the  best  of  his  way,  Swift,  who 
was  remarkable  for  walking,  soon  left  the  rest 
behind  him,  fully  resolved,  upon  his  arrival,  to 
choose  the  very  best  bed  for  himself ; for  that 
was  his  custom.  In  the  mean  time,  Parnell  was 
determined  to  prevent  his  intentions,  and  taking 

horse,  arrived  at  Lord  B ’s  by  another  way 

long  before  him.  Having  apprised  his  lordship 
of  Swift’s  design,  it  was  resolved,  at  any  rate,  to 
keep  him  out  of  the  house ; but  how  to  effect 
this  was  the  question.  Swift  never  had  the  small- 
pox, and  was  very  much  afraid  of  catching  it ; as 
soon,  therefore,  as  he  appeared,  striding  along  at 
a distance  from  the  house,  one  of  his  lordship’s 

* [Lord  Bathurst.  He  lived  to  extreme  old  age;  and  is 
alluded  to  by  Burke,  in  one  of  his  speeches  on  American 
affairs,  as  having  witnessed  almost  the  infancy  and  maturity 
of  the  colonies.] 


XXX 


LIFE  OF  PA11NELL. 


servants  was  despatched  to  inform  him  that  the 
smallpox  was  then  making  great  ravages  in  the 
family,  but  that  there  was  a summer-house  with  a 
field-bed  at  his  service,  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 
There  the  disappointed  Dean  was  obliged  to  retire, 
and  take  a cold  supper  that  was  sent  out  to  him, 
while  the  rest  were  feasting  within.  However, 
at  last  they  took  compassion  on  him ; and,  upon 
his  promising  never  to  choose  the  best  bed  again, 
they  permitted  him  to  make  one  of  the  company. 

There  is  something  satisfactory  in  these  accounts 
of  the  follies  of  the  wise ; they  give  a natural  air 
to  the  picture,  and  reconcile  us  to  our  own.  There 
have  been  few  poetical  societies  more  talked  of, 
or  productive  of  a greater  variety  of  whimsical 
conceits,  than  this  of  the  Scribblerus  Club ; but 
how  long  it  lasted  1 cannot  exactly  determine. 
The  whole  of  Parnells  poetical  existence  was 
not  of  more  than  eight  or  ten  years’  continuance. 
His  first  excursions  to  England  began  about  the 
year  1706,  and  he  died  in  the  year  1717:*  so 
that  it  is  probable  the  club  began  with  him,  and 
his  death  ended  the  connection.  Indeed,  the  fes- 
tivity of  his  conversation,  the  benevolence  of  his 
heart,  and  the  generosity  of  his  temper,  were 
qualities  that  might  serve  to  cement  any  society, 
and  that  could  hardly  be  replaced  when  he  was 
taken  away.  During  the  two  or  three  last  years 


* [He  died  in  July  1717,  in  his  thirty-eighth  year.] 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XXXI 


of  his  life,  he  was  more  fond  of  company  than 
ever,  and  could  scarcely  bear  to  be  alone.  The 
death  of  his  wife,  it  is  said,  was  a loss  to  him  that 
he  was  unable  to  support  or  recover.*  From  that 
time  he  could  never  venture  to  court  the  muse  in 
solitude,  where  he  was  sure  to  find  the  image  of 
her  who  inspired  his  attempts.  He  began  there- 
fore to  throw  himself  into  every  company,  and  to 
seek  from  wine,  if  not  relief,  at  least  insensibility.! 
Those  helps  that  sorrow  first  called  for  assistance, 
habit  soon  rendered  necessary,  and  he  died  before 
his  fortieth  year,  in  some  measure  a martyr  to 
conjugal  fidelity. 

Thus  in  the  space  of  a very  few  years,  Parnell 
attained  a share  of  fame,  equal  to  what  most  of 
his  contemporaries  were  a long  life  in  acquiring. 
He  is  only  to  be  considered  as  a poet ; and  the 

* [“I  am  heartily  sorry  for  poor  Mrs.  Parnell’s  death.  She 
seemed  to  be  an  excellent,  good-natured  young  woman,  and 
I believe  the  poor  lad  is  much  afflicted.” — Swift’s  Journal  to 
Stella,  Aug.  24, 1711.] 

f [Ruffhead,  on  the  authority  of  Warburton,  has  given  a 
different  account  of  the  cause  which  led  to  Parnell’s  intem- 
perance : — “ When  he  had  been  introduced  by  Swift  to  Lord 
Treasurer  Oxford,  and  had  been  established  in  his  favor  by 
the  assistance  of  Pope,  he  soon  began  to  entertain  ambitious 
views.  The  walk  he  chose  to  shine  in  was  popular  preach- 
ing : he  had  talents  for  it,  and  began  to  be  distinguished  in 
the  mob  places  of  Southwark  and  London,  when  the  Queen’s 
sudden  death  destroyed  all  his  prospects.  This  fatal  stroke 
broke  his  spirits;  he  took  to  drinking,  became  a sot,  and  soon 
finished  his  course.” — See  Spence’s  Anecdotes.] 


XXX11 


LIFE  OF  PAENELL. 


universal  esteem  in  which  his  poems  are  held, 
and  the  reiterated  pleasure  they  give  in  the 
perusal,  are  a sufficient  test  of  their  merit.  He 
appears  to  me  to  be  the  last  of  that  great  school 
that  had  modelled  itself  upon  the  ancients,  and 
taught  English  poetry  to  resemble  what  the  gene- 
rality of  mankind  have  allowed  to  excel.  A 
studious  and  correct  observer  of  antiquity,  he  set 
himself  to  consider  nature  with  the  lights  it  lent 
him ; and  he  found  that  the  more  aid  he  borrowed 
from  the  one,  the  more  delightfully  he  resembled 
the  other.  To  copy  nature  is  a task  the  most 
bungling  workman  is  able  to  execute ; to  select 
such  parts  as  contribute  to  delight,  is  reserved 
only  for  those  whom  accident  has  blest  with 
uncommon  talents,  or  such  as  have  read  the 
ancients  with  indefatigable  industry.  Parnell  is 
ever  happy  in  the  selection  of  his  images,  and 
scrupulously  careful  in  the  choice  of  his  subjects. 
His  productions  bear  no  resemblance  to  those 
tawdry  things  which  it  has  for  some  time  been 
the  fashion  to  admire ; in  writing  which  the  poet 
sits  down  without  any  plan,  and  heaps  up  splendid 
images  without  any  selection ; where  the  reader 
grows  dizzy  with  praise  and  admiration,  and  yet 
soon  grows  weary,  he  can  scarcely  tell  why. 
Our  poet,  on  the  contrary,  gives  out  his  beauties 
with  a more  sparing  hand;  he  is  still  carrying 
his  reader  forward,  and  just  gives  him  refresh- 
ment sufficient  to  support  him  to  his  journey’s 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


xxxiii 


end.  At  the  end  of  his  course,  the  reader  regrets 
that  his  way  has  been  so  short ; he  wonders  that 
it  gave  him  so  little  trouble,  and  so  resolves  to  go 
the  journey  over  again. 

His  poetical  language  is  not  less  correct  than 
his  subjects  are  pleasing.  He  found  it  at  that 
period  in  which  it  was  brought  to  its  highest  pitch 
of  refinement;  and  ever  since  his  time  it  has 
been  gradually  debasing.  It  is  indeed  amazing, 
after  what  has  been  done  by  Dryden,  Addison, 
and  Pope,  to  improve  and  harmonize  our  native 
tongue,  that  their  successors  should  have  taken 
so  much  pains  to  involve  it  into  pristine  bar- 
barity. These  misguided  innovators  have  not 
been  content  with  restoring  antiquated  words  and 
phrases,  but  have  indulged  themselves  in  the 
most  licentious  transpositions  and  the  harshest 
constructions,  vainly  imagining,  that  the  more 
their  writings  are  unlike  prose,  the  more  they 
resemble  poetry : they  have  adopted  a language 
of  their  own,  and  call  upon  mankind  for  admira- 
tion. All  those  who  do  not  understand  them  are 
silent,  and  those  who  make  out  their  meaning  are 
willing  to  praise,  to  show  they  understand.  From 
these  follies  and  affectations  the  poems  of  Parnell 
are  entirely  free.  He  has  considered  the  language 
of  poetry  as  the  language  of  life,  and  conveys  the 
warmest  thoughts  in  the  simplest  expression. 

Parnell  has  written  several  poems  beside  those 
published  by  Pope ; and  some  of  them  have  been 

c 


XXXIV 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


made  public  with  very  little  credit  to  his  reputa- 
tion. There  are  still  many  more  that  have  not 
yet  seen  the  light,  in  the  possession  of  Sir  John 
Parnell,  his  nephew;  who,  from  that  laudable 
zeal  which  he  has.  for  his  uncle’s  reputation,  will 
probably  be  slow  in  publishing  what  he  may  even 
suspect  will  do  it  injury.*  Of  those  which  are 

* In  the  year  1788,  a large  addition  was  made  to  our  poet’s 
works,  in  a volume  called,  “ The  Posthumous  Works  of 
Dr.  T.  Parnell,  containing  Poems  Moral  and  Divine,  and  on 
various  other  subjects.” 1 They  are  described  by  the  editor, 
as  having  been  given  by  the  author  to  the  late  Benjamin 
Everard,  and  since  his  death,  found  by  his  son  among  other 
manuscripts.  The  receipt  annexed  in  Swift’s  handwriting, 
shows  that  they  are  certainly  genuine. 

Dec.  5,  1723. 

I have  received  from  Benjamin  Everard,  Esq.,  the  above 
writings  of  the  late  Doctor  Parnell,  in  four  stitched  volumes 
of  manuscript,  which  I promise  to  restore  to  him  on  demand. 

Jonathan  Swift. 

Although  these  volumes  were  communicated  to  him  by 
Swift,  Pope,  with  admirable  taste  and  judgment,  contented 
himself  with  revising  and  polishing  the  few  pieces  which 
Parnell  had  selected  for  publication.  Spence  says,2  “ In  the 
list  of  papers  ordered  to  be  burnt,  were  the  pieces  for  carry 
ing  on  the  Memoirs  of  Scribblerus,  and  several  copies  of  verses 
by  Dean  Parnell.  I interceded  in  vain  for  both.  As  to  the 
latter , lie  said,  that  they  would  not  add  any  thing  to  the  Dean’s 
character .”  These  might  have  been  duplicates,  or  perhaps 
transcripts  made  by  Pope  from  the  manuscripts  mentioned 


1 Mr.  Nicholls  collected  some  additional  poems,  which  now 
appear  in  Anderson’s  and  Chalmers’s  Collections. 

2 Spence’s  Anecdotes,  p.  290. 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XXXV 


usually  inserted  in  his  works,  some  are  indifferent, 
and  some  moderately  good,  but  the  greater  part 
are  excellent.  A slight  stricture  on  the  most 
striking  shall  conclude  this  account,  which  I 
have  already  drawn  out  to  a disproportionate 
length. 

“ Hesiod,  or  the  Rise  of  Woman/’  is  a very 
fine  illustration  of  a hint  from  Hesiod.  It  was 
one  of  his  earliest  productions,  and  first  appeared 
in  a miscellany  published  by  Tonson.  Of  the 
three  songs  that  follow,  two  of  them  were  written 
upon  the  lady  he  afterwards  married.  They  were 
the  genuine  dictates  of  his  passion,  but  are  not 
excellent  in  their  kind. 

The  Anacreontic,  beginning  with,  “ When  Spring 
came  on  with  fresh  delight,”  is  taken  from  a French 
poet  whose  name  I forget,  and,  as  far  as  I am  able 
to  judge  of  the  French  language,  is  better  than  the 

above.  Johnson  says,  “of  the  large  appendages  which  I 
find  in  the  last  edition,  I can  only  say,  that  I know  not  whence 
they  came,  nor  have  ever  inquired  whither  they  are  going. 
They  stood  upon  the  faith  of  the  compilers.”  Of  their 
authenticity,  after  what  I have  observed,  no  reasonable  doubt 
can  be  entertained ; but  of  the  prudence  of  publishing  what 
Pope,  and  indeed  previously  Parnell  himself,  had  rejected 
from  their  acknowledged  inferiority,  an  estimate  can  easily 
be  formed,  when  we  consider  that  probably  no  one  has  ever 
heard  a passage  or  line  quoted  from  the  volume ; or  has  de- 
posited a single  image  or  sentiment  from  it  in  his  memory; 
while  the  former  poems  of  Parnell  are  familiar  to  old  and 
young,  the  delight  of  the  general  reader,  and  approved  by 
the  most  refined  judges  of  poetical  merit.  Rev.  J.  Mitford’s 
Life  of  Parnell,  63,  64. 


xxxvi 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


original.  The  Anacreontic  that  follows,  “ Gay 
Bacchus,”  & c.,  is  also  a translation  of  a Latin 
poem,  by  Aurelius  Augurellus,  an  ’Italian  poet, 
beginning  with, 

“ Invitat  olim  Bacchus  ad  coenam  suos 
Comum,  Jocum,  Cupidinem.” 

i 

Parnell,  when  he  translated  it,  applied  the 
characters  to  some  of  his  friends ; and  as  it  was 
written  for  their  entertainment,  it  probably  gave 
them  more  pleasure  than  it  has  given  the  public 
in  the  perusal.  It  seems  to  have  more  spirit 
than  the  original ; but  it  is  extraordinary  that  it 
was  published  as  an  original  and  not  as  a trans- 
lation. Pope  should  have  acknowledged  it,  as 
he  knew.  The  “ Fairy  Tale”  is  incontestably* 
one  of  the  finest  pieces  in  any  language.  The 
old  dialect  is  not  perfectly  well  preserved;  but 
this  is  a very  slight  defect,  where  all  the  rest  is 
so  excellent. 

The  “pervigilium  Yeneris”  (which,  by  the 
by,  does  not  belong  to  Catullus)  is  very  well 
versified ; and  in  general  all  Parnell’s  translations 
are  excellent.  The  “Battle  of  the  Frogs  and 
Mice,”  which  follows,  is  done  as  well  as  the 
subject  would  admit ; but  there  is  a defect  in  the 
translation,  which  sinks  it  below  the  original,  and 
which  it  was  impossible  to  remedy, — I mean  the 
names  of  the  combatants,  which  in  the  Greek 
bear  a ridiculous  allusion  to  their  natures,  have 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XXXV11 


no  force  to  the  English  reader.*  A bacon-eater 
was  a good  name  for  a mouse,  and  Pternotractas 
in  Greek  was  a very  good  sounding  word,  that 
conveyed  that  meaning.  Puff-cheek  would  sound 
odiously  as  a name  for  a frog,  and  yet  Physig- 
nathos  does  admirably  well  in  the  original. 

The  “ Letter  to  Mr.  Pope  ” is  one  of  the  finest 
compliments  that  ever  was  paid  to  any  poet ; the 
description  of  his  situation  at  the  end  of  it  is  very 
fine,  but  far  from  being  true.  That  part  of  it 
where  he  deplores  his  being  far  from  wit  and 
learning,  as  being  far  from  Pope,  gave  particular 
offence  to  his  friends  at  home.  Mr.  Coote,  a 
gentleman  in  his  neighbourhood,  who  thought 
that  he  himself  had  wit,  was  very  much  dis- 
pleased with  Parnell  for  casting  his  eyes  so  far 
off  for  a learned  friend,  when  he  could  so  con- 
veniently be  supplied  at  home.| 

* [“  Goldsmith  has  very  properly  remarked,  that  in  this 
poem,  the  Greek  names  have  not  in  English  their  original 
effect.” — Johnson.  ] 

t My  learned  and  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Barker,  of  Thetford, 
has  kindly  pointed  out  to  me  the  following  passage  relating 
to  Parnell’s  Hymn  to  Contentment : 

u On  the  pursuit  and  attainment  of  this  heavenly  tranquil 
lity,  the  classical  and  pious  reader  will  perhaps  not  be  dis- 
pleased to  meet  a beautiful  Ode  from  the  “ Divina  Psalmodia 
of  Cardinal  Bona,”  on  which  Parnell  manifestly  formed  his 
exquisite  Hymn  to  Contentment . The  insertion  will  be  more 
readily  pardoned,  as  this  imitation  has  escaped  the  notice  of 
Dr.  Johnson,  and,  it  is  believed,  of  all  other  critics  and  com- 
mentators.” 


XXXV111 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


The  translation  of  a part  of  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock  into  monkish  verse,  serves  to  show  what  a 
master  Parnell  was  of  the  Latin ; a copy  of  verses 
made  in  this  manner,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult 
trifles  that  can  possibly  be  imagined.  I am 
assured  that  it  was  written  upon  the  following 

“ 0 Sincera  parens  beatitatis, 

Coeli  delicium,  Deique  proles, 

Pax,  terrse  columen,  decusque  morum, 

Pax  cunctis  potior  ducum  triumphis, 

Quos  mundi  colis  abditos  recessus? 

Hie  te  sollicito  requirit  sestro 
Urbanos  fugiens  procul  tumultus. 

Hie  inter  scopulos,  vagosque  fluctus 
Spumantis  pelagi  latere  credit. 

Hie  deserta  petit  loca,  et  per  antra 
Te  quasrens,  varias  peragrat  oras 
Qua  lucens  oritur,  caditque  Titan. 

Hie,  ut  te  celer  adsequatur,  aurum 
Congestum  colit,  atque  dignitatum 
Regalem  sibi  praeparat  decorem. 

Hie  demens  juga  scandit,  et  remotos 
Perscrutatur  agros ; tamen  supernce 
Hi  pacis  nequeant  bonis  potiri. 

Cur  sic  ergo  tuum,  benigna,  numen 
Celans,  implacidum  relinquis  orbem  ? 

Pacem  sic  ego  sciscitabar.  Ilia 
Responded — Proprio  imperare  cordi 
Si  nosti,  tibi  cognitumque  numen 
Possessumque  meum  est ; sinu  receptam 
Sic  me  perpetuo  coles  amore.” 

See  Sermons  on  subjects  chiefly  practical,  by  J.  Jebb, 
D.  D.  F.  R.  S.  Bishop  of  Limerick,  Ardfert,  and  Aghadoe, 
third  ed.  London,  1824,  p.  94.  Appendix  II.  to  Rev.  John  Mil- 
ford's Life  of  Parnell. 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


XXXIX 


occasion.  Before  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  was  yet 
completed,  Pope  was  reading  it  to  his  friend 
Swift,  who  sat  very  attentively,  while  Parnell, 
who  happened  to  be  in  the  house,  went  in  and 
out  without  seeming  to  take  any  notice.  How- 
ever, he  was  very  diligently  employed  in  listen- 
ing, and  was  able,  from  the  strength  of  his  memory, 
to  bring  away  the  whole  description  of  the  Toilet 
pretty  exactly.  This  he  versified  in  the  manner 
now  published  in  his  works ; and  the  next  day, 
when  Pope  was  reading  his  poem  to  some  friends, 
Parnell  insisted  that  he  had  stolen  that  part  of 
the  description  from  an  old  monkish  manuscript. 
An  old  paper  with  the  Latin  verses  was  soon 
brought  forth,  and  it  was  not  till  after  some  time 
that  Pope  was  delivered  from  the  confusion  which 
it  at  first  produced.* 

The  “ Book-worm  ” is  another  unacknowledged 
translation,  from  a Latin  poem  by  Beza.  It  was 
the  fashion  with  the  wits  of  the  last  age  to  con- 
ceal the  places  whence  they  took  their  hints  or 
their  subjects.  A trifling  acknowledgment  would 
have  made  that  lawful  prize,  which  may  now  be 
considered  as  plunder. 

The  “Night  Piece  on  Death”  deserves  every 

* [“  Mr.  Harte  told  me  that  Dryden  had  been  Imposed  on 
by  a similar  little  stratagem.  One  of  his  friends  translated 
into  Latin  verse,  printed,  and  pasted  on  the  bottom  of  an  old 
hat-box,  that  celebrated  passage,  1 To  die  is  landing  on  some 
silent  shore,  &c.,’  and  that  Dryden,  on  opening  the  box,  was 
alanned  and  amazed.” — Warton.] 


xl 


LIFE  OF  PAItNELL. 


praise,  and  I should  suppose,  with  very  little 
amendment,  might  be  made  to  surpass  all  those 
night  pieces  and  churchyard  scenes  * that  have 
since  appeared.  But  the  poem  of  Parnell’s  best 
known,  and  on  which  his  best  reputation  is 
grounded,  is  the  “ Hermit.”  Pope,  speaking  of 
this  in  those  manuscript  anecdotes  already  quoted, 
says  that  u the  poem  is  very  good.  The  story,” 
continues  he,  u was  written  originally  in  Spanish, 
whence  probably  Howel  had  translated  it  into 
prose,  and  inserted  it  in  one  of  his  letters.  Ad- 
dison liked  the  scheme,  and  was  not  disinclined 
to  come  into  it.”  However  this  may  be,  Dr. 
Henry  More,  in  his  Dialogues,  has  the  very  same 
story ; f and  I have  been  informed  by  some,  that 
it  is  originally  of  Arabian  invention. 


* [The  Night  Piece  is  indirectly  preferred  by  Goldsmith  to 
Gray’s  Churchyard;  but,  in  my  opinion,  Gray  has  the 
advantage  of  dignity,  variety,  and  originality  of  sentiment. 
Johnson.] 

f I have  added,  in  a note,  the  works  of  different  authors, 
where,  in  my  own  very  contracted  line  of  reading,  I have 
accidentally  met  with  this  fiction,  and  which  shows  it  to  have 
been  more  generally  known,  than  Goldsmith,  or  probably 
Parnell,  was  aware. 

1.  Herolt  Sermones  de  Tempore  et  Sanctis,  fol.  Nuremb. 
1496,  (Serm.  liii.)  2.  Gesta  Romanorum,  c.  lxxx.  3.  Sir 
Percy  Herbert’s  Conceptions  to  his  Son,  4to.  1652.  4.  H.  More’s 
Divine  Dialogues,  p.  256,  ed.  1743.  5.  Howell’s  Letters,  iv.  4. 
6.  Lutherana  (Eng.  Trans.)  vol.  ii.  p.  127.  7.  Voltaire’s  Zadig. 
vol.  i.  chap.  xx.  p.  125;  and  see  Beloe’s  Anecdotes,  vol.  vi. 
p.  324;  and  Warton’s  Eng.  Poetry,  vol.  i.  p.  cciv.  cclxvi. ; 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


xli 

With  respect  to  the  prose  works  of  Parnell,  I 
have  mentioned  them  already ; his  fame  is  too 
well  grounded  for  any  defects  in  them  to  shake 
it.  I will  only  add,  that  the  Life  of  Zoilus  was 
written  at  the  request  of  his  friends,  and  designed 
as  a satire  upon  Dennis  and  Theobald,  with 
whom  his  Club  had  long  been  at  variance.  I 
shall  end  this  account  with  a letter  to  him  from 
Pope  and  Gay,  in  which  they  endeavour  to 
hasten  him  to  finish  that  production. 


“ London,  March  18. 

“ Dear  Sir  : — I must  own  I have  long  owed 
you  a letter,  but  you  must  own  you  have  owed 
me  one  a good  deal  longer.  Besides,  I have  but 
two  people  in  the  whole  kingdom  of  Ireland  to 
take  care  of,  the  Dean  and  you  ; but  you  have 
several,  who  complain  of  your  neglect  in  England. 
Mr.  Gay  complains,  Mr.  Harcourt  complains, 
Mr.  Jervas  complains,  Dr.  Arbuthnot  complains, 
my  Lord  complains,  I complain.  (Take  notice 
of  this  figure  of  iteration,  when  you  make  your 
next  sermon.)  Some  say  you  are  in  deep  dis- 
content at  the  new  turn  of  affairs;  others,  that 


vol.  iii.  p.  41.  See  also  Br.  Mus.  MS.  Harl.  463.  fol.  8. 
Epitres  de  Madam  Antoinette  Bourignon,  Part:  sec:  Ep. 
xvii. 

Antonia,  who  the  Hermit's  story  fram’d, 

A tale  to  prose-men  known,  by  verse-men  fam’d. 

W.  Harte's  Courtier  and  Prince . 


xlii 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


you  are  so  much  in  the  archbishop’s  good  graces, 
that  you  will  not  correspond  with  any  that  have 
seen  the  last  ministry.  Some  affirm  that  you 
have  quarrelled  with  Pope  (whose  friends  they 
observe  daily  fall  from  him,  on  account  of  his 
satirical  and  comical  disposition)  ; others,  that 
you  are  insinuating  yourself  into  the  opinion  of 
the  ingenious  ‘ Mr.  What-do-ye-call-him.’  Some 
think  you  are  preparing  your  Sermons  for  the 
press,  and  others,  that  you  will  transform  them 
into  essays  and  moral  discourses.  But  the  only 
excuse  that  I will  allow,  is  your  attention  to  the 
Life  of  Zoilus.  The  Frogs  already  seem  to  croak 
for  their  transportation'  to  England,  and  are  sen- 
sible how  much  that  doctor  is  cursed  and  hated, 
who  introduced  their  species  into  your  nation ; 
therefore,  as  you  dread  the  wrath  of  St.  Patrick, 
send  them  hither,  and  rid  the  kingdom  of  those 
pernicious  and  loquacious  animals. 

“ 1 have  at  length  received  your  poem  out  of 
Mr.  Addison’s  hands,  which  shall  be  sent  as  soon 
as  you  order  it,  and  in  what  manner  you  shall 
appoint.  I shall,  in  the  mean  time,  give  Mr.  Tooke 
a packet  for  you,  consisting  of  divers  merry  pieces. 
Mr.  Gay’s  new  farce,  Mr.  Burnet’s  Letter  to  Mr. 
Pope,  Mr.  Pope’s  Temple  of  Fame,  Mr.  Thomas 
Burnet’s  Grumbler  on  Mr.  Gay,  and  the  Bishop 
of  Ailsbury’s  Elegy,  written  either  by  Mr.  Cary 
or  some  other  hand. 

“ Mr.  Pope  is  reading  a letter ; and  in  the 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


xliii 


mean  time,  I make  use  of  the  pen  to  testify  my 
uneasiness  in  not  hearing  from  you.  I find  suc- 
cess, even  in  the  most  trivial  things,  raises  the 
indignation  of  Scribblers : for  I,  for  my  ‘ What-d’- 
ye-call-it,’  could  neither  escape  the  fury  of  Mr. 
Burnet,  or  the  German  Doctor ; then  where  will 
rage  end,  when  Homer  is  to  be  translated  ? Let 
Zoilus  hasten  to  your  friend’s  assistance,  and  en- 
vious criticism  shall  be  no  more.  I am  in  hopes 
that  we  may  order  our  affairs  so  as  to  meet  this 
summer  at  the  Bath : for  Mr.  Pope  and  myself 
have  thoughts  of  taking  a trip  thither.  You  shall 
preach,  and  we  will  write  lampoons;  for  it  is 
esteemed  as  great  an  honour  to  leave  the  Bath 
for  fear  of  a broken  head,  as  for  a Terrae  Filius 
of  Oxford  to  be  expelled.  I have  no  place  at 
court ; therefore,  that  I may  not  entirely  be  with- 
out one  everywhere,  show  that  I have  a place 
in  your  remembrance. 

Yours,  &c. 

“ A . Pope,  and  J.  Gay. 

“ Homer  will  be  published  in  three  weeks.” 

I cannot  finish  this  trifle  without  returning  my 
sincerest  acknowledgments  to  Sir  John  Parnell, 
for  the  generous  assistance  he  was  pleased  to 
give  me,  in  furnishing  me  with  many  materials, 
when  he  heard  I was  about  writing  the  life  of 
his  uncle ; as  also  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hayes,  rela- 

f 


xliv 


LIFE  OF  PARNELL. 


tions  of  our  poet ; and  to  my  very  good  friend 
M.  Stevens,  who,  being  an  ornament  to  letters 
himself,  is  very  ready  to  assist  all  the  attempts 
of  others. 


TO  THE 


EIGHT  HONOURABLE  ROBERT,  EARL  OF 
OXFORD,  AND  EARL  MORTIMER. 


Such  were  the  notes,  thy  once-lov’d  poet  sung, 
’Till  death  untimely  stopp’d  his  tuneful  tongue. 
0 just  beheld,  and  lost ! admir’d,  and  mourn’d ! 
With  softest  manners,  gentlest  arts,  adorn’d ! 
Blest  in  each  science,  blest  in  every  strain ! 

Dear  to  the  Muse,  to  Harley  dear — in  vain ! 

F or  him,  thou  oft  hast  hid  the  world  attend, 
Fond  to  forget  the  statesman  in  the  friend  ; 

For  Swift  and  him,  despis’d  the  farce  of  state, 
The  sober  follies  of  the  wise  and  great ; 
Dexterous,  the  craving,  fawning  crowd  to  quit, 
And  pleas’d  to  ’scape  from  flattery  to  wit. 

Absent  or  dead,  still  let  a friend  be  dear, 

(A  sigh  the  absent  claims,  the  dead  a tear) 
Recall  those  nights  that  clos’d  thy  toilsome  days, 
Still  hear  thy  Parnell  in  his  living  lays : 

Who  careless,  now,  of  interest,  fame,  or  fate, 
Perhaps  forgets  that  Oxford  e’er  was  great ; 

Or  deeming  meanest  what  we  greatest  call, 
Beholds  thee  glorious  only  in  thy  fall. 

1 


DEDICATION. 

And  sure  if  ought  below  the  seats  divine 
Can  touch  immortals,  ’tis  a soul  like  thine : 

A soul  supreme,  in  each  hard  instance  tried, 
Above  all  pain,  all  anger,  and  all  pride, 

The  rage  of  power,  the  blast  of  public  breath, 
The  lust  of  lucre,  and  the  dread  of  death. 

In  vain  to  deserts  thy  retreat  is  made ; 

The  Muse  attends  thee  to  the  silent  shade : 

’Tis  hers,  the  brave  man’s  latest  steps  to  trace, 
Re-judge  his  acts,  and  dignify  disgrace. 

When  Interest  calls  off  all  her  sneaking  train, 
When  all  the  oblig’d  desert,  and  all  the  vain  ; 

She  waits,  or  to  the  scaffold,  or  the  cell, 

When  the  last  lingering  friend  has  bid  farewell. 
Ev’n  now  she  shades  thy  evening  walk  with  bays, 
(No  hireling  she,  no  prostitute  to  praise) 

Ev’n  now,  observant  of  the  parting  ray, 

Eyes  the  calm  sun-set  of  thy  various  day, 
Through  fortune’s  cloud  one  truly  great  can  see, 
Nor  fears  to  tell,  that  Mortimer  is  he. 

A.  Pope. 

Sept.  25,  1721. 


HESIOD ; 


OR,  THE  RISE  OF  WOMAN. 


HESIOD ; OR,  THE  RISE  OF  WOMAN. 


What  ancient  times,  those  times  we  fancy  wise, 
Have  left  on  long  record  of  woman’s  rise, 

What  mortals  teach  it,  and  what  fables  hide, 
What  author  wrote  it,  how  that  author  died, 

All  these  I sing.  In  Greece  they  fram’d  the  tale ; 
In  Greece  ’twas  thought  a woman  might  be  frail, 
Ye  modern  beauties ! where  the  poet  drew 
His  softest  pencil,  think  he  dreamt  of  you  ; 

And  warn’d  by  him,  ye  wanton  pens,  beware 
How  heaven ’s  concern’d  to  vindicate  the  fair. 
The  case  was  Hesiod’s  ; he  the  fable  writ : 

Some  think  with  meaning,  some  with  idle  wit ; 
Perhaps  ’tis  either,  as  the  ladies  please  ; 

I wave  the  contest,  and  commence  the  lays. 

In  days  of  yore,  no  matter  where  or  when, 

’Twas  ere  the  low  creation  swarm’d  with  men, 
That  one  Prometheus,  sprung  of  heavenly  birth 
Our  author’s  song  can  witness,  liv’d  on  earth. 

He  carv’d  the  turf  to  mould  a manly  frame, 

And  stole  from  Jove  his  animating  flame. 

The  sly  contrivance  o’er  Olympus  ran, 

When  thus  the  monarch  of  the  stars  began. 


6 


THE  POEMS 


O vers’d  in  arts  ! whose  daring  thoughts  aspire 
To  kindle  clay  with  never-dying  fire ! 

Enjoy  thy  glory  past,  that  gift  was  thine ; 

The  next  thy  creature  meets,  be  fairly  mine  : 
And  such  a gift,  a vengeance  so  design’d, 

As  suits  the  counsel  of  a God  to  find ; 

A pleasing  bosom-cheat,  a specious  ill, 

Which  felt  they  curse,  yet  covet  still  to  feel. 

He  said,  and  Vulcan  straight  the  sire  commands, 
To  temper  mortar  with  ethereal  hands  ; 

In  such  a shape  to  mould  a rising  fair, 

As  virgin-goddesses  are  proud  to  wear ; 

To  make  her  eyes  with  diamond-water  shine, 
And  form  her  organs  for  a voice  divine. 

’Twas  thus  the  sire  ordain’d;  the  power  obeyed; 
And  work’d,  and  wonder’d  at  the  work  he  made  ; 
The  fairest,  softest,  sweetest  frame  beneath  * 

Now  made  to  seem,  now  more  than  seem,  to 
breathe. 

As  Vulcan  ends,  the  cheerful  queen  of  charms 
Clasp’d  the  new-panting  creature  in  her  arms  ; 
From  that  embrace  a fine  complexion  spread, 
Where  mingled  whiteness  glow’d  with  softer  red. 
Then  in  a kiss  she  breath’d  her  various  arts, 

Of  trifling  prettily  with  wounded  hearts ; 

A mind  for  love,  but  still  a changing  mind ; 

The  lisp  affected,  and  the  glance  design’d ; 

The  sweet  confusing  blush,  the  secret  wink, 


OF  PARNELL. 


The  gentle-swimming  walk,  the  courteous  sink, 
The  stare  for  strangeness  fit,  for  scorn  the  frown, 
For  decent  yielding  looks  declining  down, 

The  practis’d  languish,  where  well-feign’d  desire 
Would  own  its  melting  in  a mutual  fire  ; 

Gay  smiles  to  comfort ; April  showers  to  move ; 
And  all  the  nature,  all  the  art,  of  love. 

Gold-sceptred  Juno  next  exalts  the  fair ; 

Her  touch  endows  her  with  imperious  air, 
Self-valuing  fancy,  highly-crested  pride, 

Strong  sovereign  will,  and  some  desire  to  chide : 
For  which,  an  eloquence,  that  aims  to  vex, 

With  native  tropes  of  anger,  arms  the  sex. 

Minerva,  skilful  goddess,  train’d  the  maid 
To  twirl  the  spindle  by  the  twisting  thread, 

To  fix  the  loom,  instruct  the  reeds  to  part, 

Cross  the  long  weft,  and  close  the  web  with  art, 
A useful  gift ; but  what  profuse  expense, 

What  world  of  fashions,  took  its  rise  from  hence ! 

Young  Hermes  next,  a close  contriving  god, 

Her  brows  encircled  with  his  serpent  rod ; 

Then  plots  and  fair  excuses  fill’d  her  brain, 

The  views  of  breaking  amorous  vows  for  gain, 
The  price  of  favours,  the  designing  arts 
That  aim  at  riches  in  contempt  of  hearts ; 

And  for  a comfort  in  a marriage  life, 

The  little,  pilfering  temper  of  a wife. 


8 


THE  POEMS 


Full  on  the  fair  his  beams  Apollo  flung, 

And  fond  persuasion  tipp’d  her  easy  tongue  : 

He  gave  her  words,  where  oily  flattery  lays 
The  pleasing  colours  of  the  art  of  praise ; 

And  wit,  to  scandal  exquisitely  prone, 

Which  frets  another’s  spleen  to  cure  its  own. 

Those  sacred  Virgins  whom  the  bards  revere, 
Tun’d  all  her  voice,  and  shed  a sweetness  there, 
To  make  her  sense  with  double  charms  abound, 
Or  make  her  lively  nonsense  please  by  sound. 

To  dress  the  maid,  the  decent  Graces  brought 
A robe  in  all  the  dyes  of  beauty  wrought, 

And  plac’d  their  boxes  o’er  a rich  brocade 
Where  pictur’d  loves  on  every  cover  play’d ; 
Then  spread  those  implements  that  Vulcan’s 
art 

Had  fram’d  to  merit  Cytherea’s  heart ; 

The  wire  to  curl,  the  close-indented  comb 
To  call  the  locks,  that  lightly  wander,  home ; 
And  chief,  the  mirror,  where  the  ravish’d  maid 
Beholds  and  loves  her  own  reflected  shade. 

Fair  Flora  lent  her  stores,  the  purpled  Hours 
Confin’d  her  tresses  with  a wreath  of  flowers  ; 
Within  the  wreath  arose  a radiant  crown ; 

A veil  pellucid  hung  depending  down  ; 

Back  roll’d  her  azure  veil  with  serpent  fold, 

The  purfled  border  deck’d  the  floor  with  gold. 


OF  PARNELL. 


9 


Her  robe  (which  closely  by  the  girdle  brac’t 
Reveal’d  the  beauties  of  a slender  waist) 

Flow’d  to  the  feet;  to  copy  Venus’  air, 

When  Venus’  statues  have  a robe  to  wear. 

The  new-sprung  creature  finish’d  thus  for  harms, 
Adjusts  her  habit,  practises  her  charms, 

With  blushes  glows,  or  shines  with  lively  smiles, 
Confirms  her  will,  or  recollects  her  wiles : 

Then  conscious  of  her  worth,  with  easy  pace 
Glides  by  the  glass,  and  turning  views  her  face. 

A finer  flax  than  what  they  wrought  before, 
Through  time’s  deep  cave  the  sister  Fates  explore, 
Then  fix  the  loom,  their  fingers  nimbly  weave, 
And  thus  their  toil  prophetic  songs  deceive. 

Flow  from  the  rock,  my  flax ! and  swiftly  flow, 
Pursue  thy  thread ; the  spindle  runs  below. 

A creature  fond  and  changing,  fair  and  vain, 

The  creature  woman,  rises  now  to  reign. 

New  beauty  blooms,  a beauty  form’d  to  fly ; 

New  love  begins,  a love  produc’d  to  die ; 

New  parts  distress  the  troubled  scenes  of  life, 

The  fondling  mistress,  and  the  ruling  wife. 

Men,  born  to  labour,  all  with  pains  provide ; 
Women  have  time,  to  sacrifice  to  pride: 

They  want  the  care  of  man,  their  want  they  know, 
And  dress  to  please  with  heart-alluring  show, 


10 


THE  POEMS 


The  show  prevailing,  for  the  sway  contend, 

And  make  a servant  where  they  meet  a friend. 

Thus  in  a thousand  wax-erected  forts 
A loitering  race  the  painful  bee  supports ; 

From  sun  to  sun,  from  bank  to  bank  he  flies 
With  honey  loads  his  bag,  with  wax  his  thighs ; 
Fly  where  he  will,  at  home  the  race  remain, 
Prune  the  silk  dress,  and  murmuring  eat  the  gain. 

Yet  here  and  there  we  grant  a gentle  bride, 
Whose  temper  betters  by  the  father’s  side ; 
Unlike  the  rest  that  double  human  care, 

Fond  to  relieve,  or  resolute  to  share: 

Happy  the  man  whom  thus  his  stars  advance ! 
The  curse  is  general,  but  the  blessing  chance. 

Thus  sung  the  Sisters,  while  the  gods  admire 
Their  beauteous  creature,  made  for  man  in  ire ; 
The  young  Pandora  she,  whom  all  contend 
To  make  too  perfect  not  to  gain  her  end : 

Then  bid  the  winds  that  fly  to  breathe  the  spring, 
Return  to  bear  her  on  a gentle  wing ; 

With  wafting  airs  the  winds  obsequious  blow, 
And  land  the  shining  vengeance  safe  below. 

A golden  coffer  in  her  hand  she  bore, 

(The  present  treacherous,  but  the  bearer  more) 
’Twas  fraught  with  pangs ; for  Jove  ordain’d 
above, 

That  gold  should  aid,  and  pangs  attend  on  love. 


OF  PARNELL. 


11 


Her  gay  descent  the  man  perceiv’d  afar, 
Wondering  he  run  to  catch  the  falling  star; 

But  so  surpris’d,  as  none  but  he  can  tell, 

Who  lov’d  so  quickly,  and  who  lov’d  so  well. 

O’er  all  his  veins  the  wandering  passion  burns, 
He  calls  her  nymph,  and  every  nymph  by  turns. 
Her  form  to  lovely  Venus  he  prefers, 

Or  swears  that  Venus’  must  be  such  as  hers. 

She,  proud  to  rule,  yet  strangely  fram’d  to  tease, 
Neglects  his  offers  while  her  airs  she  plays, 
Shoots  scornful  glances  from  the  bended  frown. 

In  brisk  disorder  trips  it  up  and  down, 

Then  hums  a careless  tune  to  lay  the  storm, 

And  sits,  and  blushes,  smiles,  and  yields,  in  form. 

“Now  take  what  Jove  design’d,”  she  softly  cried, 
“ This  box  thy  portion,  and  myself  thy  bride : ” 
Fir’d  with  the  prospect  of  the  double  charms, 

He  snatch’d  the  box,  and  bride,  with  eager  arms. 

Unhappy  man  ! to  whom  so  bright  she  shone : 

The  fatal  gift,  her  tempting  self,  unknown  ! 

The  winds  were  silent,  all  the  waves  asleep, 

And  heaven  was  trac’d  upon  the  flattering  deep ; 
But  whilst  he  looks  unmindful  of  a storm, 

And  thinks  the  water  wears  a stable  form, 

What  dreadful  din  around  his  ears  shall  rise ! 
What  frowns  confuse  his  picture  of  the  skies ! 

At  first  the  creature  man  was  fram’d  alone, 


12 


THE  POEMS 


Lord  of  himself,  and  all  the  world  his  own. 

For  him  the  Nymphs  in  green  forsook  the  woods, 
For  him  the  Nymphs  in  blue  forsook  the  floods ; 
In  vain  the  Satyrs  rage,  the  Tritons  rave ; 

They  bore  him  heroes  in  the  secret  cave. 

No  care  destroy’d,  no  sick  disorder  prey’d, 

No  bending  age  his  sprightly  form  decay’d, 

No  wars  were  known,  no  females  heard  to  rage, 
And  poets  tell  us,  ’twas  a golden  age. 

When  woman  came,  those  ills  the  box  confin’d 
Burst  furious  out,  and  poison’d  all  the  wind, 
From  point  to  point,  from  pole  to  pole  they  flew, 
Spread  as  they  went,  and  in  the  progress  grew : 
The  Nymphs  regretting  left  the  mortal  race, 

And  altering  nature  wore  a sickly  face ; 

New  terms  of  folly  rose,  new  states  of  care ; 

New  plagues  to  suffer,  and  to  please,  the  fair  ! 
The  days  of  whining,  and  of  wild  intrigues, 
Commenc’d,  or  finish’d,  with  the  breach  of  leagues  ; 
The  mean  designs  of  well-dissembled  love ; 

The  sordid  matches  never  join’d  above  ; 

Abroad,  the  labour,  and  at  home  the  noise, 

(Man’s  double  sufferings  for  domestic  joys)  ; 

The  curse  of  jealousy  ; expense,  and  strife ; 
Divorce,  the  public  brand  of  shameful  life ; 

The  rival’s  sword ; the  qualm  that  takes  the  fair  ; 
Disdain  for  passion,  passion  in  despair — 

These,  and  a thousand,  yet  unnam’d,  we  find ; 

Ah  fear  the  thousand,  yet  unnam’d,  behind  ! 


OF  PARNELL. 


13 


Thus  on  Parnassus  tuneful  Hesiod  sung: 

The  mountain  echoed,  and  the  valley  rung  ; 

The  sacred  groves  a fix’d  attention  show  ; 

The  crystal  Helicon  forbore  to  flow ; 

The  sky  grew  bright ; and  (if  his  verse  be  true) 
The  Muses  came  to  give  the  laurel  too. 

But  what  avail’d  the  verdant  prize  of  wit, 

If  love  swore  vengeance  for  the  tales  he  writ  ? 
Ye  fair  offended,  hear  your  friend  relate 
What  heavy  judgment  prov’d  the  writer’s  fate, 
Though  when  it  happen’d,  no  relation  clears, 

’Tis  thought  in  live,  or  five  and  twenty  years. 

Where,  dark  and  silent,  with  a twisted  shade 
The  neighb’ring  woods  a native  arbour  made, 
There  oft  a tender  pair  for  amorous  play 
Retiring,  toy’d  the  ravish’d  hours  away  ; 

A Locrian  youth,  the  gentle  Troilus  he, 

A fair  Milesian,  kind  Evanthe  she  : 

But  swelling  nature  in  a fatal  hour 
Betray’d  the  secrets  of  the  conscious  bower ; 

The  dire  disgrace  her  brothers  count  their  own, 
And  track  her  steps,  to  make  its  author  known. 

It  chanc’d  one  evening,  (’twas  the  lover’s  day) 
Conceal’d  in  brakes  the  jealous  kindred  lay  ; 
When  Hesiod  wandering,  mus’d  along  the  plain, 
And  fix’d  his  seat  where  love  had  fix’d  the  scene: 
A strong  suspicion  straight  possess’d  their  mind, 
(For  poets  ever  were  a gentle  kind.) 


14 


THE  POEMS 


But  when  Evanthe  near  the  passage  stood. 

Flung  back  a doubtful  look,  and  shot  the  wood, 

“ Now  take,”  at  once  they  cry,  “thy  due  reward,” 
And  urg’d  with  erring  rage,  assault  the  bard. 

His  corpse  the  sea  received.  The  dolphins  bore 
(’Twas  all  the  gods  would  do)  the  corpse  to  shore. 

Methinks,  I view  the  dead  with  pitying  eyes, 

And  see  the  dreams  of  ancient  wisdom  rise  : 

I see  the  Muses  round  the  body  cry, 

But  hear  a Cupid  loudly  laughing  by  ; 

He  wheels  his  arrow  with  insulting  hand, 

And  thus  inscribes  the  moral  on  the  sand. 

“ Here  Hesiod  lies  : ye  future  bards,  beware 
How  far  your  moral  tales  incense  the  fair  : 
Unlov’d,  unloving,  ’twas  his  fate  to  bleed  ; 
Without  his  quiver  Cupid  caus’d  the  deed : 

He  judg’d  this  turn  of  malice  justly  due, 

And  Hesiod  died  for  joys  he  never  knew.” 


OF  PARNELL. 


15 


SONG. 

When  thy  beauty  appears, 

In  its  graces  and  airs, 

All  bright  as  an  angel  new  dropt  from  the  sky ; 
At  distance  I gaze,  and  am  aw’d  by  my  fears, 
So  strangely  you  dazzle  my  eye  ! 

But  when  without  art, 

Your  kind  thoughts  you  impart, 

When  your  love  runs  in  blushes  through  every  vein; 
When  it  darts  from  your  eyes,  when  it  pants 
in  your  heart, 

Then  I know  you’re  a woman  again. 

There ’s  a passion  and  pride 
In  our  sex,  she  replied, 

And  thus  (might  I gratify  both)  I would  do ; 

Still  an  angel  appear  to  each  lover  beside, 
But  still  be  a woman  to  you. 


A SONG. 

Thirsis,  a young  and  amorous  swain, 
Saw  two,  the  beauties  of  the  plain, 
Who  both  his  heart  subdue : 

Gay  Crelia’s  eyes  were  dazzling  fair, 


16 


THE  POEMS 


Sabina’s  easy  shape  and  air 
With  softer  magic  drew. 


He  haunts  the  stream,  he  haunts  the  grove. 
Lives  in  a fond  romance  of  love, 

And  seems  for  each  to  die ; 

Till  each  a little  spiteful  grown, 

Sabina  Cselia’s  shape  ran  down, 

And  she  Sabina’s  eye. 

Their  envy  made  the  shepherd  find 
Those  eyes,  which  love  could  only  blind ; 

So  set  the  lover  free  : 

No  more  he  haunts  the  grove  or  stream, 
Or  with  a true-love  knot  and  name 
Engraves  a wounded  tree 


Ah  Cadia  ! sly  Sabina  cried, 

Though  neither  love,  we’re  both  denied  ; 
Now  to  support  the  sex’s  pride, 

Let  either  fix  the  dart. 

Poor  girl ! says  Cselia,  say  no  more  ; 

For  should  the  swain  but  one  adore, 

That  spite  which  broke  his  chains  before, 
Would  break  the  other’s  heart. 


OF  PARNELL. 


1 


SONG, 

My  days  have  been  so  wondrous  free, 
The  little  birds  that  fly 
With  careless  ease  from  tree  to  tree, 
Were  but  as  bless’d  as  I. 

Ask  gliding  waters,  if  a tear 
Of  mine  increas’d  their  stream  ? 

Or  ask  the  flying  gales,  if  e’er 
I lent  one  sigh  to  them  ? 

But  now  my  former  days  retire 
And  I ’m  by  beauty  caught, 

The  tender  chains  of  sweet  desire 
Are  fix’d  upon  my  thought. 

Ye  nightingales,  ye  twisting  pines  ! 

Ye  swains  that  haunt  the  grove ! 
Ye  gentle  echoes,  breezy  winds  ! 

Ye  close  retreats  of  love  ! 

With  all  of  nature,  all  of  art, 

Assist  the  dear  design ; 

O teach  a young,  unpractis’d  heart, 
To  make  my  Nancy  mine ! 

2 


18 


THE  POEMS 


The  very  thought  of  change  I hate, 
As  much  as  of  despair ; 

Nor  ever  covet  to  be  great, 

Unless  it  be  for  her. 

’Tis  true,  the  passion  in  my  mind 
Is  mix’d  with  soft  distress  ; 

Yet  while  the  fair  I love  is  kind, 

I cannot  wish  it  less. 


OF  PARNELL. 


19 


ANACREONTIC. 

When  spring  came  on  with  fresh  delight, 
To  cheer  the  soul,  and  charm  the  sight, 
While  easy  breezes,  softer  rain, 

And  warmer  suns  salute  the  plain ; 

’Twas  then,  in  yonder  piny  grove, 

That  Nature  went  to  meet  with  Love. 

Green  was  her  robe,  and  green  her  wreath, 
Where’er  she  trod,  ’twas  green  beneath  ; 
Where’er  she  turn’d,  the  pulses  beat 
With  new  recruits  of  genial  heat ; 

And  in  her  train  the  birds  appear, 

To  match  for  all  the  coming  year. 

Rais’d  on  a bank  where  daisies  grew, 

And  violets  intermix’d  a blue, 

She  finds  the  boy  she  went  to  find ; 

A thousand  pleasures  wait  behind, 

Aside,  a thousand  arrows  lie, 

But  all  unfeather’d  wait  to  fly. 

When  they  met,  the  dame  and  boy, 
Dancing  Graces,  idle  Joy, 

Wanton  Smiles,  and  airy  Play, 

Conspir’d  to  make  the  scene  be  gay  ; 


20 


THE  POEMS 


Love  pair’d  the  birds  through  all  the  grove, 
And  Nature  bid  them  sing  to  Love, 

Sitting,  hopping,  fluttering,  sing, 

And  pay  their  tribute  from  the  wing, 

To  fledge  the  shafts  that  idly  lie, 

And  yet  unfeather’d  wait  to  fly. 

’Tis  thus,  when  spring  renews  the  blood, 
They  meet  in  every  trembling  wood, 

And  thrice  they  make  the  plumes  agree, 
And  every  dart  they  mount  with  three, 

And  every  dart  can  boast  a kind, 

Which  suits  each  proper  turn  of  mind. 

\ 

From  the  towering  eagle’s  plume 
The  generous  hearts  accept  their  doom : 
Shot  by  the  peacock’s  painted  eye, 

The  vain  and  airy  lovers  die : 

For  careful  dames  and  frugal  men, 

The  shafts  are  speckled  by  the  hen : 

The  pies  and  parrots  deck  the  darts, 

When  prattling  wins  the  panting  hearts : 
When  from  the  voice  the  passions  spring, 
The  warbling  finch  affords  a wing : 

Together,  by  the  sparrow  stung, 

Down  fall  the  wanton  and  the  young : 

And  fledg’d  by  geese  the  weapons  fly, 

When  others  love  they  know  not  why. 


All  this,  as  late  I chanced  to  rove, 


OF  PARNELL 


21 


I learn’d  in  yonder  waving  grove. 

And  see,  says  Love,  who  called  me  near, 

How  much  I deal  with  Nature  here, 

How  both  support  a proper  part, 

She  gives  the  feather,  I the  dart, 

Then  cease  for  souls  averse  to  sigh 
If  Nature  cross  ye,  so  do  I ; 

My  weapon  there  unfeather’d  flies, 

And  shakes  and  shuffles  through  the  skies  ; 

But  if  the  mutual  charms  I find  • 

By  which  she  links  you,  mind  to  mind, 

They  wing  my  shafts,  I poise  the  darts, 

And  strike  from  both,  through  both  your  hearts. 


22 


THE  POEMS 


«* 


ANACREONTIC. 

Gay  Bacchus  liking  Estcourt’s  wine, 

A noble  meal  bespoke  us  ; 

And  for  the  guests  that  were  to  dine, 
Brought  Comus,  Love,  and  Jocus. 

The  god  near  Cupid  drew  his  chair, 

Near  Comus,  Jocus  plac’d  : 

For  wine  makes  Love  forget  its  care, 
And  Mirth  exalts  a feast. 

The  more  to  please  the  sprightly  god, 
Each  sweet  engaging  Grace 

Put  on  some  clothes  to  come  abroad, 

And  took  a waiter’s  place. 

Then  Cupid  nam’d  at  every  glass 
A lady  of  the  sky ; 

While  Bacchus  swore  he’d  drink  the  lass, 
And  had  it  bumper-high. 

Fat  Comus  toss’d  his  brimmers  o’er, 

And  always  got  the  most ; 

Jocus  took  care  to  fill  him  more, 
Whene’er  he  miss’d  the  toast. 


OF  PARNELL. 


23 


They  call’d,  and  drank  at  every  touch  ; 

He  fill’d  and  drank  again ; 

And  if  the  gods  can  take  too  much, 

’Tis  said,  they  did  so  then. 

Gay  Bacchus  little  Cupid  stung, 

By  reckoning  his  deceits ; 

And  Cupid  mock’d  his  stammering  tongue, 
With  all  his  staggering  gaits  : 

And  Jocus  droll’d  on  Cornu  s’  ways, 

And  tales  without  a jest ; 

While  Comus  call’d  his  witty  plays 
But  waggeries  at  best. 

Such  talk  soon  set  them  all  at  odds  ; 

And,  had  I Homer’s  pen, 

I ’d  sing  ye,  how  they  drank  like  gods, 

And  how  they  fought  like  men. 

To  part  the  fray,  the  Graces  fly, 

Who  make  ’em  soon  agree  ; 

Nay,  had  the  F uries  selves  been  nigh, 
They  still  were  three  to  three. 

Bacchus  appeas’d,  rais’d  Cupid  up, 

And  gave  him  back  his  bow  ; 

But  kept  some  darts  to  stir  the  cup 
Where  sack  and  sugar  flow. 


24 


THE  POEMS 


Jocus  took  Comus’  rosy  crown, 

And  gaily  wore  the  prize, 

And  thrice  in  mirth  he  push’d  him  down, 
As  thrice  he  strove  to  rise. 

Then  Cupid  sought  the  myrtle  grove, 
Where  Yenus  did  recline  ; 

And  Yenus  close  embracing  Love, 

They  join’d  to  rail  at  wine. 

And  Comus  loudly  cursing  wit, 

Roll’d  off  to  some  retreat, 

Where  boon  companions  gravely  sit 
In  fat  unwieldy  state. 

Bacchus  and  Jocus,  still  behind, 

For  one  fresh  glass  prepare ; 

They  kiss,  and  are  exceeding  kind, 

And  vow  to  be  sincere. 

But  part  in  time,  whoever  hear 
This  our  instructive  song ; 

For  though  such  friendships  may  be  dear, 
They  can’t  continue  long. 


OF  PARNELL. 


25 


A FAIRY  TALE, 

IN  THE  ANCIENT  ENGLISH  STYLE. 


In  Britain’s  isle  and  Arthur’s  days, 
When  midnight  faeries  daunc’d  the  maze, 
Liv’d  Edwin  of  the  green ; 

Edwin,  I wis,  a gentle  youth, 

Endow’d  with  courage,  sense,  and  truth, 
Though  badly  shap’d  he  been. 

His  mountain  back  mote  well  be  said 
To  measure  heighth  against  his  head, 

And  lift  itself  above : 

Yet  spite  of  all  that  nature  did 
To  make  his  uncouth  form  forbid, 

This  creature  dar’d  to  love. 

He  felt  the  charms  of  Edith’s  eyes, 

Nor  wanted  hope  to  gain  the  prize, 

Could  ladies  look  within ; 

But  one  Sir  Topaz  dress’d  with  art, 

And,  if  a shape  could  win  a heart, 

He  had  a shape  to  win. 

Edwin,  if  right  I read  my  song, 

With  slighted  passion  pac’d  along 
All  in  the  moony  light : 


t 


2G 


THE  POEMS 


’Twas  near  an  old  enchaunted  court, 
Where  sportive  faeries  made  resort 
To  revel  out  the  night. 

His  heart  was  drear,  his  hope  was  cross’d, 
’Twas  late,  ’twas  farr,  the  path  was  lost 
That  reach’d  the  neighbour- town ; 
With  weary  steps  he  quits  the  shades, 
Resolv’d  the  darkling  dome  he  treads, 

And  drops  his  limbs  adown. 

But  scant  he  lays  him  on  the  floor, 

When  hollow  winds  remove  the  door, 

A trembling  rocks  the  ground : 

And,  well  I ween  to  count  aright, 

At  once  an  hundred  tapers  light 
On  all  the  walls  around. 

Now  sounding  tongues  assail  his  ear, 

Now  sounding  feet  approachen  near, 

And  now  the  sounds  encrease ; 

And  from  the  corner  where  he  lay 
He  sees  a train  profusely  gay 

Come  pranckling  o’er  the  place. 

But,  trust  me,  gentles,  never  yet 
Was  dight  a masquing  half  so  neat, 

Or  half  so  rich  before  ; 

The  country  lent  the  sweet  perfumes, 

The  sea  the  pearl,  the  sky  the  plumes, 

The  town  its  silken  store. 


OF  PARNELL. 


27 


Now  whilst  he  gaz’d,  a gallant  drest 
In  flaunting  robes  above  the  rest, 

With  awfull  accent  cried, 

What  mortal  of  a wretched  mind, 
Whose  sighs  infect  the  balmy  wind, 

Has  here  presumed  to  hide  ? 

At  this  the  swain,  whose  venturous  soul 
No  fears  of  magic  art  controul, 
Advanc’d  in  open  sight ; 

4 Nor  have  I cause  of  dreed,’  he  said, 

4 Who  view,  by  no  presumption  led, 
Your  revels  of  the  pight. 

4 ’Twas  grief  for  scorn  of  faithful  love, 
Which  made  my  steps  un  wee  ting  rove 
Amid  the  nightly  dew.’ 

’Tis  well,  the  gallant  cries  again, 

We  faeries  never  injure  men 
Wlio  dare  to  tell  us  true. 

Exalt  thy  love-dejected  heart, 

Be  mine  the  task,  or  ere  we  part, 

To  make  thee  grief  resign ; 

Now  take  the  pleasure  of  thy  cliaunce ; 
Whilst  I with  Mab  my  partner  daunce, 
Be  little  Mable  thine. 

He  spoke,  and  all  a sudden  there 
Light  musick  floats  in  wanton  air ; 

The  monarch  leads  the  queen ; 


28 


THE  POEMS 


The  rest  their  faerie  partners  found, 

And  Mable  trimly  tript  the  ground 
With  Edwin  of  the  green. 

The  dauncing  past,  the  board  was  laid, 

And  siker  such  a feast  was  made 
As  heart  and  lip  desire ; 

Withouten  hands  the  dishes  fly, 

The  glasses  with  a wish  come  nigh, 

And  with  a wish  retire. 

But  now  to  please  the  faerie  king, 

Full  every  deal  they  laugh  and  sing, 

And  antick  feats  devise ; 

Some  wind  and  tumble  like  an  ape, 

And  other-some  transmute  their  shape 
In  Edwin’s  wondering  eyes. 

Till  one  at  last  that  Robin  hight, 

Renown’d  for  pinching  maids  by  night, 

Has  hent  him  up  aloof ; 

And  full  against  the  beam  he  flung, 

Where  by  the  back  the  youth  he  hung 
To  spraul  unneath  the  roof. 

From  thence,  ‘Reverse  my  charm,’  he  cries, 
‘ And  let  it  fairly  now  suffice 

The  gambol  has  been  shown.’ 

But  Oberon  answers  with  a smile, 

Content  thee,  Edwin,  for  a while, 

The  vantage  is  thine  own. 


OF  PARNELL. 


29 


Here  ended  all  the  phantom e play  ; 
They  smelt  the  fresh  approach  of  day, 
And  heard  a cock  to  crow ; 

The  whirling  wind  that  bore  the  crowd 
Has  clapp’d  the  door,  and  whistled  loud, 
To  warn  them  all  to  go. 

Then  screaming  all  at  once  they  fly, 
And  all  at  once  the  tapers  die ; 

Poor  Edwin  falls  to  floor ; 

Forlorn  his  state,  and  dark  the  place, 
Was  never  wight  in  sike  a case 
Through  all  the  land  before. 


But  soon  as  Dan  Apollo  rose, 

Full  jolly  creature  home  he  goes, 

He  feels  his  back  the  less ; 

His  honest  tongue  and  steady  mind 
Han  rid  him  of  the  lump  behind 
Which  made  him  want  success. 

With  lusty  livelyhed  he  talks 
He  seems  a dauncing  as  he  walks  ; 

His  story  soon  took  wind ; 

And  beauteous  Edith  sees  the  youth, 
Endow’d  with  courage,  sense  and  truth, 
Without  a bunch  behind. 

The  story  told,  Sir  Topaz  mov’d. 

The  youth  of  Edith  erst  approv’d, 

To  see  the  revel  scene : 


30 


THE  POEMS 


At  close  of  eve  he  leaves  his  home, 
And  wends  to  find  the  ruin’d  dome 
All  on  the  gloomy  plain. 

As  there  he  bides,  it  so  befell, 

The  wind  came  rustling  down  a dell, 
A shaking  seiz’d  the  wall : 

Up  spring  the  tapers  as  before, 

The  faeries  bragly  foot  the  floor, 

And  musick  fills  the  hall. 

But  certes  sorely  sunk  with  woe 
Sir  Topaz  sees  the  elfin  show, 

His  spirits  in  him  die  : 

When  Oberon  cries,  ‘A  man  is  near, 
A mortall  passion,  cleeped  fear, 
Hangs  flagging  in  the  sky.’ 

With  that  Sir  Topaz,  hapless  youth ! 
In  accents  faultering  ay  for  ruth 
In  treats  them  pity  graunt ; 

For  als  he  been  a mister  wight 
Betray’d  by  wandering  in  the  night 
To  tread  the  circled  haunt. 

‘Ah  losell  vile ! ’ at  once  they  roar, 
‘And  little  skill’d  of  faerie  lore, 

Thy  cause  to  come  we  know : 
Now  has  thy  kestrell  courage  fell ; 
And  faeries,  since  a lie  you  tell, 

Are  free  to  work  thee  woe.’ 


OF  PARNELL. 


31 


Then  Will,  who  bears  the  wispy  fire 
To  trail  the  swains  among  the  mire, 

The  caitive  upward  flung ; 

There  like  a tortoise  in  a shop 
He  dangled  from  the  chamber-top,  i 
Where  whilome  Edwin  hung. 

The  revel  now  proceeds  apace, 

Deflly  they  frisk  it  o’er  the  place, 

They  sit,  they  drink,  and  eat ; 

The  time  with  frolick  mirth  beguile, 
And  poor  Sir  Topaz  hangs  the  wThile 
Till  all  the  rout  retreat. 

By  this  the  starrs  began  to  wink, 

They  shriek,  they  fly,  the  tapers  sink, 
And  down  ydrops  the  knight : 

For  never  spell  by  faerie  laid 
With  strong  enchantment  bound  a glade 
Beyond  the  length  of  night. 

Chill,  dark,  alone,  adreed,  he  lay, 

Till  up  the  welkin  rose  the  day, 

Then  deem’d  the  dole  was  o’er  : 
But  wot  ye  well  his  harder  lot  ? 

His  seely  back  the  bunch  has  got 
Which  Edwin  lost  afore. 

This  tale  a Sybil-nurse  ared ; 

She  softly  strok’d  my  youngling  head, 
And  when  the  tale  was  done, 


32 


THE  POEMS 


4 Thus  some  are  born,  my  son/  she  cries, 
4 With  base  impediments  to  rise, 

And  some  are  born  with  none. 

4 But  yirtue  can  itself  advance 
To  what  the  favourite  fools  of  chance 
By  fortune  seem’d  design’d  ; 

Virtue  can  gain  the  odds  of  fate, 

And  from  itself  shake  off  the  weight 
Upon  th’  unworthy  mind.’ 


OF  PARNELL. 


33 


THE  VIGIL  OF  VENUS. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  TIME  OF  JULIUS  CASSAR,  AND  BY  SOME 
ASCRIBED  TO  CATULLUS.  * 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov'd  before  ; 

Let  those  who  always  lov'd , now  love  the  more . 

The  spring,  the  new,  the  warbling  spring  appears, 
The  youthful  season  of  reviving  years  ; 

In  spring  the  loves  enkindle  mutual  heats, 

The  feather’d  nation  choose  their  tuneful  mates, 
The  trees  grow  fruitful  with  descending  rain 
And  drest  in  differing  greens  adorn  the  plain. 

She  comes  ; to-morrow  Beauty’s  empress  roves 
Through  walks  that  winding  run  within  the  groves ; 
She  twines  the  shooting  myrtle  into  bowers, 

And  ties  their  meeting  tops  with  wreaths  of 
flowers, 


PERVIGILIUM  VENERIS. 

Cras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique  amavit , 
eras  amet . 

Ver  novum,  ver  jam  canorum : vere natusorbis  est, 
Vere  concordant  amores,  vere  nubent  alites, 

Et  nemus  comam  resolvit  de  maritis  imbribus. 
Cras  amorum  copulatrix  inter  umbras  arborum 
Implicat  gazas  virentes  de  flagello  myrteo. 

3 


34 


THE  POEMS 


Then  rais’d  sublimely  on  her  easy  throne. 

From  Nature’s  powerful  dictates  draws  her  own. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov'd  before; 

Let  those  who  always  lov'd , now  love  the  more . 

’Twas  on  that  day  which  saw  the  teeming  flood 
Swell  round,  impregnate  with  celestial  blood  ; 
Wandering  in  circles  stood  the  finny  crew, 

The  midst  was  left  a void  expanse  of  blue ; 

There  parent  Ocean  work’d  with  heaving  throes, 
And  dropping  wet  the  fair  Dione  rose. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov'd  before  ; 

Let  those  who  always  lov'd , now  love  the  more . 

She  paints  the  purple  year  with  varied  show, 
Tips  the  green  gem,  and  makes  the  blossom  glow, 


Cras  Dione  dicit,  jura  fulta  sublimi  throno. 

Gras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique 
amavit , cras  amet . 

Tunc  liquore  de  superno,  spumeo  ponti  e globe, 
Caerulas  inter  catervas,  inter  et  bipedes  equos, 
Fecit  undantem  Dionen  de  maritis  imbribus. 

Cras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique 
amavit , eras  amet . 

Ipsa  gemmis  purpurantem  pingit  annum  floribus, 
Ipsa  surgentes  papillas  de  Favoni  spiritu 


OF  PARNELL. 


35 


She  makes  the  turgid  buds  receive  the  breeze, 
Expand  to  leaves,  and  shade  the  naked  trees : 
When  gathering  damps  the  misty  nights  diffuse, 
She  sprinkles  all  the  morn  with  balmy  dews  ; 
Bright  trembling  pearls  depend  at  every  spray, 
And  kept  from  falling,  seem  to  fall  away. 

A glossy  freshness  hence  the  rose  receives, 

And  blushes  sweet  through  all  her  silken  leaves  ; 
(The  drops  descending  through  the  silent  night, 
While  stars  serenely  roll  their  golden  light,) 
Close  till  the  morn,  her  humid  veil  she  holds ; 
Then  deck’d  with  virgin  pomp  the  flower  unfolds. 
Soon  will  the  morning  blush : ye  maids  ! prepare, 
In  rosy  garlands  bind  your  flowing  hair  : 

Tis  Venus’  plant:  the  blood  fair  Venus  shed, 
O’er  the  gay  beauty  pour’d  immortal  red ; 

From  Love’s  soft  kiss  a sweet  ambrosial  smell 
Was  taught  for  ever  on  the  leaves  to  dwell ; 


Urguet  in  toros  tepentes,  ipsa  roris  lucidi, 

Noctis  aura  quern  relinquit,  spargit  humentes  aquas 
Et  micant  lacrymae  termentes  decidivo  pondere  ; 
Gutta  praeceps  orbe  parvo  sustinet  casus  suos ; 

In  pudorem  florulentas  prodiderunt  purpurae. 
Humor  ille,  quern  serenis  astra  rorant  noctibus, 
Mane  virgines  papillas  solvit  humenti  peplo. 

Ipsa  jussit  mane  ut  udae  virgines  nubant  rosse, 
Fusae  prius  de  cruore  deque  Amoris  osculis, 
Deque  gemmis,  deque  flammis,  deque  solis  pupuris. 


36 


THE  POEMS 


From  gems,  from  flames,  from  orient  rays  of  light, 
The  richest  lustre  makes  her  purple  bright ; 

And  she  to-morrow  weds  ; the  sporting  gale 
Unties  her  zone,  she  bursts  the  verdant  veil : 
Through  all  her  sweets  the  rifling  lover  flies, 

And  as  he  breathes,  her  glowing  fires  arise. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov'd  before  ; 

Let  those  who  always  lov'd,  now  love  the  more . 

Now  fair  Dione  to  the  myrtle  grove 
Sends  the  gay  Nymphs,  and  sends  her  tender  Love, 
And  shall  they  venture  ? Is  it  safe  to  go,  [bow  ? 
While  Nymphs  have  hearts,  and  Cupid  wears  a 
Yes,  safely  venture,  ’tis  his  mother’s  will  : 

He  walks  unarm’d  and  undesigning  ill, 

His  torch  extinct,  his  quiver  useless  hung, 

His  arrows  idle,  and  his  bow  unstrung. 


Cras  ruborem  qui  latebat  veste  tectus  ignea, 
Unico  marita  nodo  non  pudebit  solvere. 

Cras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique 
amavit , cras  amet . 

Ipsa  nimfas  diva  luco  jussit  ire  myrteo  : 

Et  puer  comes  puellis.  Nec  tamen  credi  potest 
Esse  Amorem  feriatum,  si  sagittas  vexerit 
Ite  Nimfse  : posuit  arma,  feriatus  est  amor  : 
Jussus  est  inermis  ire,  nudus  ire  jussus  est: 

Neu  quid  arcu,  neu  sagitta,  neu  quid  igne  laederet. 


OF  PARNELL. 


37 


And  yet,  ye  Nymphs,  beware,  his  eyes  have  charms, 
And  Love  that’s  naked,  still  is  Love  in  arms. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov'd  before  ; 

Let  those  who  always  lov'd , now  love  the  more . 

From  Venus’  bower  to  Delia’s  lodge  repairs 
A virgin  train  complete  with  modest  airs : 

“ Chaste  Delia,  grant  our  suit ! or  shun  the  wood, 
Nor  stain  this  sacred  lawn  with  savage  blood. 
Venus,  O Delia ! if  she  could  persuade, 

Would  ask  thy  presence,  might  she  ask  a maid.” 
Here  cheerful  quires  for  three  auspicious  nights 
With  songs  prolong  the  pleasurable  rites : 

Here  crowds  in  measures  lightly-decent  rove, 

Or  seek  by  pairs  the  covert  of  the  grove, 

Where  meeting  greens  for  arbours  arch  above, 
And  mingling  flowerets  strew  the  scenes  of  love. 


Sed  tamen  nimfse  cavete,  quod  Cupido  pulcher  est  : 
Totus  est  inermis  idem,  quando  nudus  est  Amor. 
Cras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique 
amavit , cras  amet, 

Compari  Venus  pudore  mittit  ad  te  virgines : 

Una  res  est  quam  rogamus : cede  virgo  Delia ; 

Ut  nemus  sit  incruentum  de  ferinis  stragibus. 
Ipsa  vellet  ut  venires,  si  deceret  virginem  : 

Jam  tribus  choros  videres  feriatos  noctibus, 
Congreges  inter  catervas,  ire  per  saltus  tuos. 


38 


THE  POEMS 


Here  dancing  Ceres  shakes  her  golden  sheaves : 
Here  Bacchus  revels,  deck’d  with  viny  leaves : 
Here  wit’s  enchanting  God  in  laurel  crown’d 
Wakes  all  the  ravish’d  Hours  with  silver  sound. 
Ye  fields,  ye  forests,  own  Dione’s  reign, 

And,  Delia,  huntress  Delia,  shun  the  plain. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov’d  before  ; 

Let  those  ivho  always  lov’d , now  love  the  more.  * 

Gay  with  the  bloom  of  all  her  opening  year, 

The  Queen  at  Hybla  bids  her  throne  appear ; 
And  there  presides ; and  there  the  favourite  band, 
Her  smiling  Graces,  share  the  great  command. 
Now,  beauteous  Hybla,  dress  thy  flowery  beds 
With  all  the  pride  the  lavish  season  sheds  ; 

Now  all  thy  colours,  all  thy  fragrance  yield, 

And  rival  Enna’s  aromatic  field. 


Floreas  inter  coronas,  myrteas  inter  casas. 

Nec  Ceres,  nec  Bacchus  absunt,necpoetarum  Deus; 
Decinent,  et  tota  nox  est  pervigila  cantibus. 
Regnet  in  silvis  Dione : tu  recede  Delia. 

Cras  amet , qai  numquam  amavit  / quique 
amavit , cras  amet. 

Jussit  Hyblseis  tribunal  stare  diva  floribus  ; 
Prsesens  ipsa  jura  dicit,  adsederunt  Gratiae. 
Hybla  totos  funde  flores,  quidquid  annus  adtulit, 
Hybla  florum  rumpe  vestem,  quantus  ^Ennoe  cam- 
pus est. 


OF  PARNELL. 


39 


To  fill  the  presence  of  the  gentle  court 
From  every  quarter  rural  nymphs  resort, 

From  woods,  from  mountains,  from  their  humble 
vales, 

From  waters  curling  with  the  wanton  gales. 
Pleas’d  with  the  joyful  train,  the  laughing  Queen 
In  circles  seats  them  round  the  bank  of  green  ; 
And  “ lovely  girls,”  she  whispers,  “ guard  your 
hearts ; 

My  boy,  though  stript  of  arms,  abounds  in  arts.” 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov’d  before  ; 

Let  those  who  always  lov’d , now  love  the  more . 

Let  tender  grass  in  shaded  alleys  spread, 

Let  early  flowers  erect  their  painted  head. 
To-morrow’s  glory  be  to-morrow  seen, 

That  day  old  Ether  wedded  Earth  in  green. 


Ruris  hie  erunt  puellse,  vel  puellae  montium, 
Quaeque  silvas,  quaeque  lucos,  quaeque  montes  in- 
colunt. 

Jussit  omnis  adsidere  pueri  mater  alitis, 

Jussit  et  nudo  puellas  nil  Amori  credere. 

Gras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique 
amavit , eras  amet. 

Et  recentibus  virentes  ducat  umbras  floribus  : 
Cras  erit  qui  primus  aether  copulavit  nuptias 
Ut  pater  roris  crearet  vernis  annum  nubibus, 


40 


THE  POEMS 


The  Vernal  Father  bid  the  spring  appear, 

In  clouds  he  coupled  to  produce  the  year ; 

The  sap  descending  o’er  her  bosom  ran, 

And  all  the  various  sorts  of  soul  began. 

By  wheels  unknown  to  sight,  by  secret  veins 
Distilling  life,  the  fruitful  goddess  reigns, 
Through  all  the  lovely  realms  of  native  day, 
Through  all  the  circled  land,  the  circling  sea ; 
With  fertile  seed  she  fill’d  the  pervious  earth, 
And  ever  fix’d  the  mystic  ways  of  birth. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov’d  before  ; 

Let  those  who  always  lov’d , now  love  the  more . 

’Twas  she  the  parent,  to  the  Latian  shore 
Through  various  dangers  Troy’s  remainder  bore : 


In  sinum  maritus  imber  fluxit  almse  conjugis, 

Ut  foetus  immixtus  omnis  aleret  magno  corpore. 
Ipsa  venas  atque  mentem  permeante  spiritu 
Intus  occultis  gubernat  procreatrix  viribus, 
Perque  coelum,  perque  terras,  perque  pontum  sub- 
ditum, 

Pervium  sui  tenorem  seminali  tramite 
Imbuit,  jussitque  mundum  nosse  nascendi  vias. 
Cras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique 
amavit , cras  amet . 

Ipsa  Trojanos  nepotes  in  Latino  transtulit ; 

Ipsa  Laurentem  puellam  conjugem  nato  dedit ; 


OF  PARNELL. 


41 


She  won  Lavinia  for  her  warlike  son, 

And  winning  her,  the  Latian  empire  won. 

She  gave  to  Mars  the  maid,  whose  honour’d  womb  $ 
Swell’d  with  the  founder  of  immortal  Rome : 

Decoy’d  by  shows  the  Sabine  dames  she  led, 

And  taught  our  vigorous  youth  the  means  to  wed. 
Hence  sprung  the  Romans,  hence  the  race  divine, 
Through  which  great  Caesar  draws  his  Julian  line. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov'd  before  ; 

Let  those  who  always  lov'd , now  love  the  more. 

In  rural  seats  the  soul  of  Pleasure  reigns ; 

The  life  of  Beauty  fills  the  rural  scenes ; 

E’en  Love,  if  fame  the  truth  of  Love  declare, 

Drew  first  the  breathings  of  a rural  air. 

Some  pleasing  meadow  pregnant  Beauty  prest, 

She  laid  her  infant  on  its  flowery  breast ; 

From  nature’s  sweets  he  sipp’d  the  fragrant  dew. 


Moxque  Marti  de  sacello  dat  pudicam  virginem ; 
Romuleas  ipsa  fecit  cum  Sabinis  nuptias ; 

Unde  Ramnes  et  Quirites,  proque  prole  posterum 
Romuli  matrem  crearet  et  nepotem  Caesarem. 
Cras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit;  quique 
amavit , cras  amet. 

Rura  foecundat  voluptas : rura  Yenerem  sentiunt. 
Ipse  Amor  puer  Dionae  rure  natus  dicitur. 

Hunc  ager,  cum  parturiret  ipsa,  suscepit  sinu ; 


42 


THE  POEMS 


He  smil’d,  he  kiss’d  them,  and  by  kissing  grew. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov'd  before  ; 

Let  those  who  always  lov'd , now  love  the  more . 

Now  bulls  o’er  stalks  of  broom  extend  their  sides, 
Secure  of  favours  from  their  lowing  brides. 

Now  stately  rams  their  fleecy  consorts  lead, 

Who  bleating  follow  through  the  wandering  shade. 
And  now  the  Goddess  bids  the  birds  appear, 
Raise  all  their  music,  and  salute  the  year. 

Then  deep  the  swan  begins,  and  deep  the  song 
Runs  o’er  the  water  where  he  sails  along ; 

While  Philomela  tunes  a treble  strain, 

And  from  the  poplar  charms  the  listening  plain. 
We  fancy  love  express’d  at  every  note, 


Ipsa  florum  delicatis  educavit  osculis. 

Cras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique 
amavit , cras  amet. 

Ecce,  jam  super  genistas  explicant  tauri  latus  ! 
Quisque  tuus  quo  tenetur  conjugali  foedere. 
Suhter  umbras  cum  maritis  ecce  balantum  greges : 
Et  canoras  non  tacere  diva  jussit  alites. 

Jam  loquaces  ore  rauco  stagna  cygni  perstrepunt: 
Adsonat  Terei  puella  subter  umbram  populi ; 

Ut  putas  motus  amoris  ore  dici  musico, 

Et  neges  queri  sororem  de  marito  barbaro. 


/ 


OF  PARNELL. 


43 


It  melts,  it  warbles,  in  her  liquid  throat : 

Of  barbarous  Tereus  she  complains  no  more, 
But  sings  for  pleasure,  as  for  grief  before  ; 

And  still  her  graces  rise,  her  airs  extend, 

And  all  is  silence  till  the  Siren  end. 

How  long  in  coming  is  my  lovely  spring  ? 

And  when  shall  I,  and  when  the  swallow  sing  ? 
Sweet  Philomela,  cease ; or  here  I sit,  . 
And  silent  lose  my  rapturous  hour  of  wit : 

’Tis  gone,  the  fit  retires,  the  flames  decay, 

My  tuneful  Phoebus  flies  averse  away. 

His  own  Amycle  thus,  as  stories  run, 

But  once  was  silent,  and  that  once  undone. 

Let  those  love  now , who  never  lov'd  before  ; 
Let  those  who  always  lov'd , now  love  the  more. 


Ilia  cantat:  nos  tacemus.  Quando  ver  venit 
meum  ? 

Quando  faciam  ut  celidon,  ut  tacere  desinam  ? 
Perdidi  musam  tacendo,  nec  me  Phoebus  respicit. 
Sic  Amyclas,  cum  tacerent,  perdidit  silentium. 
Cras  amet , qui  numquam  amavit ; quique 
amavit , cras  amet. 


HOMER’S  BATRACHOMUOMACHIA 


OR,  THE 


BATTLE  OF  THE  FROGS  AND  MICE. 


NAMES  OF  THE  MICE. 


Psycarpax,  one  who  plunders  granaries. 
Troxartes,  a bread-eater. 

Lychomyle,  a licker  of  meal. 

Ptemotroctas,  a bacon-eater. 

Lychopinax,  a licker  of  dishes. 

Embasichytros,  a creeper  into  pots. 

Lychenor,  a name  from  licking. 

Troglodytes,  one  who  runs  into  holes. 

Artophagus,  who  feeds  on  bread. 

Tyroglyphus,  a cheese  scooper. 

Pternoglyphus,  a bacon-scooper. 

Ptemophagus,  a bacon-eater. 

Cnissodioctes,  one  who  follows  the  steam  of  kitchens. 
Sitophagus,  an  eater  of  wheat. 

Meridarpax,  one  who  plunders  his  share. 


NAMES  OF  THE  FROGS. 

Physignathus,  one  who  swells  his  cheeks 
Peleus,  a name  from  mud. 

Hydromeduse,  a ruler  in  the  waters. 
Hypsiboas,  a loud  bawler. 

Pelion ,from  mud. 

Seutlams,  called  from  the  beets. 
Polyphonus,  a great  babbler. 
Lymnocharis,  one  who  loves  the  lake. 
Crambophagus,  a cabbage-eater. 
Lymnisius,  called  from  the  lake. 
Calamifffchius,yW>ra  the  herb. 
Hydrocharis,  who  loves  the  water. 
Borborocates,  who  lies  in  the  mud. 
Prassophagus,  an  eater  of  garlick. 
Pelusius, /rom  mud. 

Pelobates,  who  walks  in  the  dirt. 
Prassseus,  called from  garlick. 
Craugasides,  from  croaking. 


\ 


HOMER’S  BATTLE  OF  THE  FROGS,  ETC. 


BOOK  I. 

To  fill  my  rising  song  with  sacred  fire, 

Ye  tuneful  Nine,  ye  sweet  celestial  quire ! 

From  helicon’s  embowering  height  repair, 

Attend  my  labours,  and  reward  my  prayer. 

The  dreadful  toils  of  raging  Mars  I write, 

The  springs  of  contest,  and  the  fields  of  fight ; 
How  threatening  mice  advanc’d  with  warlike  grace, 
And  wag’d  dire  combats  with  the  croaking  race. 
Not  louder  tumults  shook  Olympus’  towers, 

When  earth-born  giants  dar’d  immortal  powers. 
These  equal  acts  an  equal  glory  claim, 

And  thus  the  Muse  records  the  tale of  fame. 

Once  on  a time,  fatigu’d  and  out  of  breath, 

And  just  escap’d  the  stretching  claws  of  death, 

A gentle  mouse,  whom  cats  pursu’d  in  vain, 

Fled  swift  of  foot  across  the  neighb’ring  plain, 
Hung  o’er  a brink,  his  eager  thirst  to  cool, 

And  dipt  his  whiskers  in  the  standing  pool ; 

When  near  a courteous  frog  advanc’d  his  head 
And  from  the  water’s,  hoarse-resounding,  said, 


48 


THE  POEMS 


What  art  thou,  stranger  ? What  the  line  you  boast  ? 
What  chance  has  cast  thee  panting  on  our  coast  ? 
With  strictest  truth  let  all  thy  words  agree, 

Nor  let  me  find  a faithless  mouse  in  thee. 

If  worthy  friendship,  proffer’d  friendship  take, 
And  entering  view  the  pleasurable  lake : 

Range  o’er  my  palace,  in  my  bounty  share, 

And  glad  return  from  hospitable  fare. 

This  silver  realm  extends  beneath  my  sway, 

And  me,  their  monach,  all  its  frogs  obey. 

Great  Physignathus  I,  from  Peleus’  race, 

Begot  in  fair  Hydromeduse’  embrace, 

Where  by  the  nuptial  bank  that  paints  his  side, 
The  swift  Eridanus  delights  to  glide. 

Thee  too,  thy  form,  thy  strength,  and  port  proclaim 
A sceptred  king ; a son  of  martial  fame  ; 

Then  trace  thy  line,  and  aid  my  guessing  eyes. 
Thus  ceas’d  the  frog,  and  thus  the  mouse  replies. 

Known  to  the  gods,  the  men,  the  birds  that  fly 
Through  wild  expanses  of  the  midway  sky, 

My  name  resounds  ; and  if  unknown  to  thee, 

The  soul  of  great  Psycarpax  lives  in  me, 

Of  brave  Troxartes’  line,  whose  sleeky  down 
In  love  compress’d  Lychomile  the  brown. 

My  mother  she,  and  princess  of  the  plains 
Where’er  her  father  Pternotroctes  reigns  : 

Born  where  a cabin  lifts  its  airy  shed, 

With  figs,  with  nuts,  with  varied  dainties  fed. 

But  since  our  natures  nought  in  common  know, 


OF  PARNELL. 


49 


From  what  foundation  can  a friendship  grow  ? 
These  curling  waters  o’er  thy  palace  roll ; 

But  man’s  high  food  supports  my  princely  soul. 
In  vain  the  circled  loaves  attempt  to  lie 
Conceal’d  in  flaskets  from  my  curious  eye ; 

In  vain  the  tripe  that  boasts  the  whitest  hue, 

In  vain  the  gilded  bacon  shuns  my  view ; 

In  vain  the  cheeses,  offspring  of  the  pail, 

Or  honey’d  cakes,  which  gods  themselves  regale. 
And  as  in  arts  I shine,  in  arms  I fight, 

Mix’d  with  the  bravest,  and  unknown  to  flight, 
Though  large  to  mine  the  human  form  appear, 
Not  man  himself  can  smite  my  soul  with  fear  : 
Sly  to  the  bed  with  silent  steps  I go, 

Attempt  his  finger,  or  attack  his  toe, 

And  fix  indented  wounds  with  dext’rous  skill ; 
Sleeping  he  feels  and  only  seems  to  feel. 

Yet  have  we  foes  which  direful  dangers  cause, 
Grim  owls  with  talons  arm’d,  and  cats  with  claws, 
And  that  false  trap,  thevden  of  silent  fate, 

Where  death  his  ambush  plants  around  the 
bait: 

All  dreaded  these,  and  dreadful  o’er  the  rest 
The  potent  warriors  of  the  tabby  vest : 

If  to  the  dark  we  fly,  the  dark  they  trace, 

And  rend  our  heroes  of  the  nibbling  race. 

But  me,  nor  stalks,  nor  watrisli  herbs  delight, 
Nor  can  the  crimson  radish  charm  my  sight, 

The  lake-resounding  frog’s  selected  fare, 

Which  not  a mouse  of  any  taste  can  bear. 

3 


50 


THE  POEMS 


As  thus  the  downy  prince  his  mind  express’d, 

His  answer  thus  the  croaking  king  address’d. 

Thy  words  luxuriant  on  thy  dainties  rove, 

And,  stranger,  we  can  boast  of  bounteous  Jove  : 
We  sport  in  water,  or  we  dance  on  land, 

And  born  amphibious,  food  from  both  commands 
But  trust  thyself  where  wonders  ask  thy  view, 
And  safely  tempt  those  seas,  I ’ll  bear  the  through  : 
Ascend  my  shoulders,  firmly  keep  thy  seat, 

And  reach  my  marshy  court,  and  feast  in  state. 

He  said,  and  bent  his  back  ; with  nimble  bound 
Leaps  the  light  mouse,  and  clasps  his  arms  around ; 
Then  wondering  floats,  and  sees  with  glad  survey 
The  winding  banks  resembling  ports  at  sea. 

But  when  aloft  the  curling  water  rides, 

And  wets  with  azure  wrave  his  downy  sides, 

His  thoughts  grow  conscious  of  approaching  woe, 
His  idle  tears  with  vain  repentance  flow  ; 

His  locks  he  rends,  his  trembling  feet  he  rears, 
Thick  beats  his  heart  writh  unaccustom’d  fears  ; 
He  sighs,  and  chill’d  with  danger,  longs  for  shore : 
His  tail  extended  forms  a fruitless  oar, 

Half  drench’d  in  liquid  death  his  prayers  he 
spake, 

And  thus  bemoan’d  him  from  the  dreadful  lake. 

So  pass’d  Europa  through  the  rapid  sea, 
Trembling  and  fainting  all  the  venturous  way ; 


OF  PARNELL. 


51 


With  oary  feet  the  bull  triumphant  row’d, 

And  safe  in  Crete  depos’d  his  lovely  load. 

Ah  safe  at  last ! may  thus  the  frog  support 
My  trembling  limbs  to  reach  his  ample  court. 

As  thus  he  sorrows,  death  ambiguous  grows, 

Lo ! from  the  deep  a water-hydra  rose  ; 

He  rolls  his  sanguin’d  eyes,  his  bosom  heaves, 

And  darts  with  active  rage  along  the  waves. 

Confus’d  the  monarch  sees  his  hissing  foe, 

And  dives,  to  shun  the  sable  fates,  below. 

Forgetful  frog!  The  friend  thy  shoulders  bore, 
Unskill’d  in  swimming,  floats  remote  from  shore. 

He  grasps  writh  fruitless  hands  to  find  relief, 

Supinely  falls,  and  grinds  his  teeth  with  grief ; 
Plunging  he  sinks,  and  struggling  mounts  again, 

And  sinks,  and  strives,  but  strives  with  fate  in  vain. 
The  weighty  moisture  clogs  his  hairy  vest, 

And  thus  the  prince  his  dying  rage  express’d. 

Nor  thou,  that  fling’st  me  floundering  from  thy 
back, 

As  from  hard  rocks  rebounds  the  shattering  wrack, 
Nor  thou  shalt  ’scape  thy  due,  perfidious  king ! 
Pursu’d  by  vengeance  on  the  swiftest  wing : 

At  land  thy  strength  could  never  equal  mine, 

At  sea  to  conquer,  and  by  craft,  was  thine. 

But  heaven  has  gods,  and  gods  have  searching 
eyes  : 

Ye  mice,  ye  mice,  my  great  avengers,  rise ! 

UBRARY 

univEHsm  se  uutm 


52 


THE  POEMS 


This  said,  he  sighing  gasp’d,  and  gasping  died. 

His  death  the  young  Lychopinax  espied, 

As  on  the  flowery  brink  he  pass’d  the  day, 

Bask’d  in  the  beams,  and  loiter’d  life  away. 

Loud  shrieks  the  mouse,  his  shrieks  the  shores 
repeat ; 

The  nibbling  nation  learn  their  hero’s  fate  ; 

Grief,  dismal  grief  ensues  ; deep  murmurs  sound, 
And  shriller  fury  fills  the  deafen’d  ground. 

From  lodge  to  lodge  the  sacred  heralds  run, 

To  fix  their  council  with  the  rising  sun  ; 

Where  great  Troxartes  crown’d  in  glory  reigns, 
And  winds  his  lengthening  court  beneath  the  plains: 
Psycarpax’  father,  father  nowT  no  more ! 

For  poor  Psycarpax  lies  remote  from  shore ; 
Supine  he  lies  ! the  silent  waters  stand, 

And  no  kind  billow  wafts  the  dead  to  land  ! 


OF  PARNELL. 


53 


HOMER'S  BATTLE  OF  THE  FROGS  AND 
MICE. 

BOOK  II. 

When  rosy-finger’d  morn  had  ting’d  the  clouds 
Around  their  monach-mouse  the  nation  crowds ; 
Slow  rose  the  sovereign,  heav’d  his  anxious  breast, 
And  thus,  the  council  fill’d  with  rage,  address’d. 

For  lost  Psycarpax  much  my  soul  endures, 

’Tis  mine  the  private  grief,  the  public,  yours. 
Three  warlike  sons  adorn’d  my  nuptial  bed, 

Three  sons,  alas  ! before  their  father  dead  ! 

Our  eldest  perish’d  by  the  ravening  cat, 

As  near  my  court  the  prince  unheedful  sat. 

Our  next,  an  engine  fraught  with  danger  drew', 
The  portal  gap’d,  the  bait  was  hung  in  view, 

Dire  arts  assist  the  trap,  the  fates  decoy, 

And  men  unpitying  kill’d  my  gallant  boy. 

The  last,  his  country’s  hope,  his  parents’  pride, 
Plung’d  in  the  lake  by  Physignathus,  died. 

Rouse  all  the  war,  my  friends  ! avenge  the  deed, 
And  bleed  that  monarch,  and  his  nation  bleed. 

His  words  in  every  breast  inspir’d  alarms, 

And  careful  Mars  supplied  their  host  with  arms. 


54 


THE  POEMS 


In  verdant  hulls  despoil’d  of  all  their  beans, 

The  buskin’d  warriors  stalk’d  along  the  plains : 
Quills  aptly  bound,  their  bracing  corselet  made, 

F ac’d  with  the  plunder  of  a cat  they  flay’d ; 

The  lamp’s  round  boss  affords  their  ample  shield; 
Large  shells  of  nuts  their  covering  helmet  yield ; 
And  o’er  the  region  with  reflected  rays, 

Tall  groves  of  needles  for  their  lances  blaze. 
Dreadful  in  arms  the  marching  mice  appear ; 

The  wondering  frogs  perceive  the  tumult  near, 
Forsake  the  waters,  thickening  form  a ring, 

And  ask  and  hearken,  whence  the  noises  spring. 
When  near  the  crowd,  disclos’d  to  public  view, 
The  valiant  chief  Embasichytros  drew  : 

The  sacred  herald’s  sceptre  grac’d  his  hand, 

And  thus  his  words  express’d  his  king’s  command. 

Ye  frogs ! the  mice,  with  vengeance  fir’d,  advance, 
And  deck’d  in  armour  shake  the  shining  lance : 
Their  hapless  prince  by  Physignathus  slain, 
Extends  incumbent  on  the  watery  plain. 

Then  arm  your  host,  the  doubtful  battle  try  ; 
Lead  forth  those  frogs  that  have  the  soul  to  die. 

The  chief  retires,  the  crowd  the  challenge  hear, 
And  proudly-swelling  yet  perplex’d  appear  : 
Much  they  resent,  yet  much  their  monarch  blame, 
Who  rising,  spoke  to  clear  his  tainted  fame. 

0 friends,  I never  forc’d  the  mouse  to  death, 


OF  PARNELL. 


55 


Nor  saw  the  gasping  of  his  latest  breath. 

He,  vain  of  youth,  our  art  of  swimming  tried, 
And  venturous,  in  the  lake  the  wanton  died. 

To  vengeance  now  by  false  appearance  led, 

They  point  their  anger  at  my  guiltless  head. 

But  wage  the  rising  war  by  deep  device, 

And  turn  its  fury  on  the  crafty  mice. 

Your  king  directs  the  way ; my  thoughts  elate 
With  hopes  of  conquest,  form  designs  of  fate. 
Where  high  the  banks  their  verdant  surface  heave, 
And  the  steep  sides  confine  the  sleeping  wave, 
There,  near  the  margin,  clad  in  armour  bright, 
Sustain  the  first  impetuous  shocks  of  fight : 

Then,  where  the  dancing  feather  joins  the  crest, 
Let  each  brave  frog  his  obvious  mouse  arrest ; 
Each  strongly  grasping,  headlong  plunge  a foe, 
Till  countless  circles  whirl  the  lake  below; 

Down  sink  the  mice  in  yielding  waters  drown’d  ; 
Loud  flash  the  waters  ; and  the  shores  resound  : 
The  frogs  triumphant  tread  the  conquer’d  plain, 
And  raise  their  glorious  trophies  of  the  slain. 

He  spake  no  more : his  prudent  scheme  imparts 
Redoubling  ardour  to  the  boldest  hearts. 

Green  was  the  suit  his  arming  heroes  chose, 
Around  their  legs  the  greaves  of  mallows  close  ; 
Green  were  the  beets  about  their  shoulders  laid, 
And  green  the  colewort,  which  the  target  made  ; 
Form’d  of  the  varied  shells  the  waters  yield, 
Their  glossy  helmets  glisten’d  o’er  the  field ; 


THE  POEMS 


56 

And  tapering  sea-reeds  for  the  polish’d  spear, 
With  upright  order  pierc’d  the  ambient  air. 

Thus  dress’d  for  war,  they  take  th’  appointed  height, 
Poise  the  long  arms,  and  urge  the  promis’d  fight. 

But  now,  wdiere  Jove’s  irradiate  spires  arise, 
With  stars  surrounded  in  ethereal  skies, 

(A  Solemn  council  call’d)  the  brazen  gates 
Unbar ; the  gods  assume  their  golden  seats ; 

The  sire  superior  leans,  and  points  to  show 
What  wond’rous  combats  mortals  wage  below : 
How  strong,  how  large,  the  numerous  heroes  stride ; 
What  length  of  lance  they  shake  with  warlike  pride; 
What  eager  fire,  their  rapid  march  reveals  ; 

So  the  fierce  Centaurs  ravag’d*o’er  the  dales  ; 
And  so  confirm’d,  the  daring  Titans  rose, 

Heap’d  hills  on  hills,  and  bid  the  gods  be  foes. 

This  seen,  the  power  his  sacred  visage  rears, 

He  casts  a pitying  smile  on  worldly  cares, 

And  asks  what  heavenly  guardians  take  the  list, 
Or  who  the  mice,  or  who  the  frogs  assist  ? 

Then  thus  to  Pallas.  If  my  daughter’s  mind 
Have  join’d  the  mice,  why  stays  she  still  behind? 
Drawn  forth  by  savoury  steams  they  wind  their  way, 
And  sure  attendance  round  thine  altar  pay, 
Where  while  the  victims  gratify  their  taste, 

They  sport  to  please  the  goddess  of  the  feast. 
Thus  spake  the  ruler  of  the  spacious  skies ; 


OF  PARNELL. 


57 


But  thus,  resolv’d,  the  blue-ey’d  maid  replies. 

In  vain,  my  father ! all  their  dangers  plead ; 

To  such,  thy  Pallas  never  grants  her  aid. 

My  flowery  wreaths  they  petulantly  spoil, 

.And  rob  my  crystal  lamps  of  feeding  oil, 

Ills  following  ills : but  what  afflicts  me  more, 

My  veil,  that  idle  race  profanely  tore. 

The  web  was  curious,  wrought  with  art  divine  ; 
Relentless  wretches  ! all  the  work  was  mine  ; 
Abng  the  loom  the  purple  warp  I spread, 

Cast  the  light  shoot,  and  cross’d  the  silver  thread. 
In  this  their  teeth  a thousand  breaches  tear ; 

Th^  thousand  breaches  skilful  hands  repair ; 

For  which  vile  earthly  duns  thy  daughter  grieve: 
The  gods,  that  use  no  coin,  have  none  to  give ; 
And  learning’s  goddess  never  less  can  owe  : 
Neglected  learning  gains  no  wealth  below 
Nor  let  the  frogs  to  win  my  succour  sue, 

Those  clamorous  fools  have  lost  my  favour  too. 
For  late,  when  all  the  conflict  ceas’d  at  night, 
When  my  stretch’d  sinews  work’d  with  eager  fight ; 
When  spent  with  glorious  toil,  I left  the  field, 
And  sunk  for  slumber  on  my  swelling  shield ; 

Lo  from  the  deep,  repelling  sweet  repose, 

With  noisy  croakings  half  the  nation  rose : 

Devoid  of  rest,  with  aching  brows  I lay, 

Till  cocks  proclaim’d  the  crimson  dawn  of  day. 
Let  all,  like  me,  from  either  host  forbear, 

Nor  tempt  the  flying  furies  of  the  spear ; 

Let  heavenly  blood,  or  what  for  blood  may  flow, 


58 


THE  POEMS 


Adorn  the  conquest  of  a meaner  foe. 

Some  daring  mouse  may  meet  the  wondrous  odds, 
Though,  gods  oppose,  and  brave  the  wounded  gods. 
O’er  gilded  clouds  reclin’d,  the  danger  view, 

And  be  the  wars  of  mortals  scenes  for  you. 

So  mov’d  the  blue-ey’d  queen  ; her  words  persuade, 
Great  Jove  assented,  and  the  rest  obey’d. 


OF  PARNELL. 


59 


HOMER’S  BATTLE  OF  THE  FROGS  AND 
MICE. 

BOOK  III. 

Now  front  to  front  tlie  marching  armies  shine, 
Halt  ere  they  meet,  and  form  the  lengthening  line : 
The  chiefs  conspicuous  seen  and  heard  afar, 

Give  the  loud  signal  to  the  rushing  war ; 

Their  dreadful  trumpets  deep-mouth’d  hornets 
sound, 

The  sounded  charge  remurmurs  o’er  the  ground  ; 
E’en  Jove  proclaims  a field  of  horror  nigh, 

And  rolls  low  thunder  through  the  troubled  sky. 

First  to  the  fight  the  large  Hypsiboas  flew, 

And  brave  Lychenor  with  a javelin  slew. 

The  luckless  warrior  fill’d  with  generous  flame, 
Stood  foremost  glittering  in  the  post  of  fame ; 
When  in  his  liver  struck,  the  javelin  hung ; 

The  mouse  fell  thundering,  and  the  target  rung ; 
Prone  to  the  ground  he  sinks  his  closing  eye, 

And  soil’d  in  dust  his  lovely  tresses  lie. 

A spear  at  Pelion  Troglodytes  cast, 

The  missive  spear  within  the  bosom  past ; 

Death’s  sable  shades  the  fainting  frog  surround, 
And  life’s  red  tide  runs  ebbing  from  the  wound. 


60 


THE  POEMS 


Embasichytros  felt  Seutlaeus’  dart 
Transfix  and  quiver  in  his  panting  heart ; 

But  great  Artophagus  aveng’d  the  slain, 

And  big  Seutlaeus  tumbling  loads  the  plain, 
And  Polyphonus  dies,  a frog  renown’d 
For  boastful  speech  and  turbulence  of  sound,' 
Deep  through  the  belly  pierc’d,  supine  he  lay, 
And  breath’d  his  soul  against  the  face  of  day. 

The  strong  Lymnocharis,  who  view’d  with  ire 
A victor  triumph,  and  a friend  expire ; 

With  heaving  arms  a rocky  fragment  caught, 
And  fiercely  flung  where  Troglodytes  fought ; 
A warrior  vers’d  in  arts,  of  sure  retreat, 

But  arts  in  vain  elude  impending  fate ; 

F ull  on  his  sinewy  neck  the  fragment  fell, 

And  o’er  his  eyelids  clouds  eternal  dwell. 
Lychenor,  second  of  the  glorious  name, 

Striding  advanc’d,  and  took  no  wandering  aim ; 
Through  all  the  frog  the  shining  javelin  flies, 
And  near  the  vanquish’d  mouse  the  victor  dies. 

The  dreadful  stroke  Crambophagus  affrights, 
Long  bred  to  banquets,  less  inur’d  to  fights  ; 
Heedless  he  runs,  and  stumbles  o’er  the  steep, 
And  wildly  floundering  flashes  up  the  deep : 
Lychenor  following  with  a downward  blow, 
Beach’d  in  the  lake  his  unrecover’d  foe ; 
Gasping  he  rolls,  a purple  stream  of  blood 
Distains  the  surface  of  the  silver  flood ; 


OF  PARNELL. 


61 


Through  the  wide  wound  the  rushing  entrails  throng, 
And  slow  the  breathless  carcass  floats  along. 


Lymnisius  good  Tyroglyphus  assails, 

Prince  of  the  mice  that  haunt  the  flowery  vales, 
Lost  to  the  milky  fares  and  rural  seat, 

He  came  to  perish  on  the  bank  of  fate. 

The  dread  Pternoglyphus  demands  the  fight, 
Which  tender  Calaminthius  shuns  by  flight, 
Drops  the  green  target,  springing  quits  the  foe. 
Glides  through  the  lake,  and  safely  dives  below. 
But  dire  Pternophagus  divides  his  way 
Through  breaking  ranks,  and  leads  the  dreadful  day. 
No  nibbling  prince  excell’d  in  fierceness  more, 
His  parents  fed  him  on  the  savage  boar ; 

But  where  his  lance  the  field  with  blood  imbru’d, 
Swift  as  he  mov’d,  Hydrocharis  pursu’d, 

Till  fallen  in  death  he  lies ; a shattering  stone 
Sounds  on  the  neck,  and  crushes  all  the  bone ; 
His  blood  pollutes  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 

And  from  his  nostrils  bursts  the  gushing  brain. 

Lychopinax  with  Borb’rocoetes  fights, 

A blameless  frog  whom  humbler  life  delights ; 
The  fatal  javelin  unrelenting  flies, 

And  darkness  seals  the  gentle  croaker’s  eyes. 

Incens’d  Prassophagus,  with  sprightly  bound, 
Bears  Cnissodioctes  off  the  rising  ground, 


62 


THE  POEMS 


Then  drags  him  o’er  the  lake  depriv’d  of  breath, 
And  downward  plunging,  sinks  his  soul  to  death. 
But  now  the  great  Psycarpax  shines  afar, 
(Scarce  he  so  great  whose  loss  provok’d  the  war,) 
Swift  to  revenge  his  fatal  javelin  fled, 

And  through  the  liver  struck  Pelusius  dead ; 

His  freckled  corpse  before  the  victor  fell, 

His  soul  indignant  sought  the  shades  of  hell. 

This  saw  Pelobates,  and  from  the  flood 
Heav’d  with  both  hands  a monstrous  mass  of  mud : 
The  cloud  obscene  o’er  all  the  hero  flies, 
Dishonours  his  brown  face,  and  blots  his  eyes. 
Enrag’d,  and  wildly  spluttering,  from  the  shore 
A stone  immense  of  size  the  warrior  bore, 

A load  for  labouring  earth,  whose  bulk  to  raise, 
Asks  ten  degenerate  mice  of  modern  days : 

F ull  on  the  leg  arrives  the  crushing  wound ; 

The  frog  supportless  writhes  upon  the  ground. 

Thus  flush’d,  the  victor  wars  with  matchless  force, 
Till  loud  Craugasides  arrests  his  course : 
Hoarse-croaking  threats  precede ; with  fatal  speed 
Deep  through  the  belly  ran  the  pointed  reed, 
Then  strongly  tugg’d,  return’d  imbru’d  with  gore ; 
And  on  the  pile  his  reeking  entrails  bore. 

The  lame  Sitophagus,  oppress’d  with  pain, 

Creeps  from  the  desperate  dangers  of  the  plain ; 
And  where  the  ditches  rising  weeds  supply 


OF  PARNELL. 


63 


To  spread  their  lowly  shades  beneath  the  sky, 
There  lurks  the  silent  mouse  reliev’d  from  heat, 
And  safe  embower’d,  avoids  the  chance  of  fate. 

But  here  Troxartes,  Physignathus  there, 

Whirl  the  dire  furies  of  the  pointed  spear : 

But  where  the  foot  around  its  ankle  plies, 
Troxartes  wounds,  and  Physignathus  flies, 

Halts  to  the  pool  a safe  retreat  to  find, 

And  trails  a dangling  length  of  leg  behind. 

The  mouse  still  urges,  still  the  frog  retires, 

And  half  in  anguish  of  the  flight  expires. 

Then  pious  ardour  young  Prassjeus  brings, 
Betwixt  the  fortunes  of  contending  kings  : 

Lank,  harmless  frog ! with  forces  hardly  grown, 
He  darts  the  reed  in  combats  not  his  own, 
Which  faintly  tinkling  on  Troxartes’  shield, 
Hangs  at  the  point,  and  drops  upon  the  field. 

Now  nobly  towering  o’er  the  rest  appears 
A gallant  prince  that  far  transcends  his  years, 
Pride  of  his  sire,  and  glory  of  his  house, 

And  more  a Mars  in  combat  than  a mouse  ; 

His  action  bold,  robust  his  ample  frame, 

And  Meridarpax  his  resounding  name. 

The  warrior  singled  from  the  fighting  crowd, 
Boasts  the  dire  honours  of  his  arms  aloud ; 

Then  strutting  near  the  lake,  with  looks  elate, 

To  all  its  nations  threats  approaching  fate. 


64 


THE  POEMS 


And  such  his  strength,  the  silver  lakes  around 
Might  roll  their  waters  o’er  unpeopled  ground ; 
But  powerful  Jove,  who  shows  no  less  his  grace 
To  frogs  that  perish,  than  to  human  race, 

Felt  soft  compassion  rising  in  his  soul, 

And  shook  his  sacred  head,  that  shook  the  pole. 
Then  thus  to  all  the  gazing  powers  began 
The  sire  of  gods,  and  frogs,  and  Mice,  and  man. 

What  seas  of  blood  I view  ! what  worlds  of  slain ! 
An  Iliad  rising  from  a day’s  campaign ! 

How  fierce  his  javelin  o’er  the  trembling  lakes  £ 
The  black-furr’d  hero  Meridarpax  shakes ! 

Unless  some  favouring  deity  descend, 

Soon  will  the  frogs’  loquacious  empire  end. 

Let  dreadful  Pallas  wing’d  with  pity  fly, 

And  make  her  aegis  blaze  before  his  eye : 

While  Mars  refulgent  on  his  rattling  car, 

Arrests  his  raging  rival  of  the  war. 

He  ceas’d,  reclining  with  attentive  head, 

When  thus  the  glorious  ’god  of  combats  said. 

Nor  Pallas,  Jove  ! though  Pallas  take  the  field, 
With  all  the  terrors  of  her  hissing  shield, 

Nor  Mars  himself,  though  Mars  in  armour  bright 
Ascend  his  car,  and  wheel  amidst  the  fight ; 

Not  these  can  drive  the  desperate  mouse  afar, 

Or  change  the  fortunes  of  the  bleeding  war. 

Let  all  go  forth,  all  heaven  in  arms  arise ; 

Or  launch  thy  own  red  thunder  from  the  skies ; 


OF  PARNELL. 


65 


Such  ardent  bolts  as  flew  that  wondrous  day, 
When  heaps  of  Titans  mix’d  with  mountains  lay, 
When  all  the  giant  race  enormous  fell, 

And  huge  Enceladus  was  hurl’d  to  hell.” 

’Twas  thus  th’  armipotent  advis’d  the  gods, 

When  from  his  throne  the  cloud-compeller  nods  ; 
Deep  lengthening  thunders  run  from  pole  to  pole, 
Olympus  trembles  as  the  thunders  roll. 

Then  swift  he  whirls  the  brandish’d  bolt  around 
And  headlong  darts  it  at  the  distant  ground  ; 

The  bolt  discharg’d  inwrapp’d  with  lightning  flies, 
And  rends  its  flaming  passage  through  the  skies : 
Then  earth’s  inhabitants,  the  nibblers,  shake, 

And  frogs,  the  dwellers  in  the  waters,  quake. 

Yet  still  the  mice  advance  their  dread  design, 

And  the  last  danger  threats  the  croaking  line, 

Till  Jove,  that  inly  mourn’d  the  loss  they  bore, 
With  strange  assistants  fill’d  the  frighted  shore. 

Pour’d  from  the  neighb’ring  strand,  deform’d  to 
They  march,  a sudden  unexpected  crew  ! [view, 
Strong  suits  of  armour  round  their  bodies  close, 
Which,  like  thick  anvils,  blunt  the  force  of  blows  ; 
In  wheeling  marches  turn’d,  oblique  they  go ! 
With  harpy  claws  their  limbs  divide  below  ; 

Fell  shears  the  passage  to  their  mouth  command ; 
From  out  the  flesh  their  bones  by  nature  stand ; 
Broad  spread  their  backs,  their  shining  shoulders 
rise  ; 


5 


66 


THE  POEMS 


Unnumber’d  joints  distort  their  lengthen’d  thighs  ; 
With  nervous  cords  their  hands  are  firmly  brac’d ; 
Their  round  black  eyeballs  in  their  bosom  plac’d ; 
On  eight  long  feet  the  wondrous  warriors  tread  ; 
And  either  end  alike  supplies  a head. 

These,  mortal  wits  to  call  the  crabs  agree, 

The  gods  have  other  names  for  things  than  we. 

Now  where  the  jointures  from  their  loins  depend, 
The  heroes’  tails  with  severing  grasps  they  rend. 
Here,  short  of  feet,  depriv’d  the  power  to  fly, 
There,  without  hands,  upon  the  field  they  lie, 
Wrench’d  from  their  holds,  and  scatter’d  all  around, 
The  bended  lances  heap  the  cumber’d  ground. 
Helpless  amazement,  fear  pursuing  fear, 

And  mad  confusion  through  their  host  appear  : 
O’er  the  wild  waste  with  headlong  flight  they  go, 
Or  creep  conceal’d  in  vaulted  holes  below. 

But  down  Olympus  to  the  western  seas 
Far-shooting  Phoebus  drove  with  fainter  rays ; 
And  a whole  war  (so  Jove  ordain’d)  begun, 

Was  fought,  and  ceas’d,  in  one  revolving  sun. 


OF  PARNELL. 


G7 


TO  MR.  POPE. 

To  praise,  yet  still  with  due  respect  to  praise, 

A bard  triumphant  in  immortal  bays, 

The  learn’<J  to  show,  the  sensible  commend, 

Yet  still  preserve  the  province  of  the  friend, 
What  life,  what  vigour,  must  the  lines  require  ! 
What  music  tune  them  ! what  affection  fire  ! 

O might  thy  genius  in  my  bosom  shine ! 

Thou  shouldst  not  fail  of  numbers  worthy  thine, 
The  brightest  ancients  might  at  once  agree 
To  sing  within  my  lays,  and  sing  of  thee. 

Horace  himself  would  own  thou  dost  excel 
In  candid  arts  to  play  the  critic  well. 

Ovid  himself  might  wish  to  sing  the  dame 
Whom  Windsor  forest  sees  a gliding  stream  ; 

On  silver  feet,  with  annual  osier  crown’d, 

She  runs  forever  through  poetic  ground. 

How  flame  the  glories  of  Belinda’s  hair, 

Made  by  thy  Muse  the  envy  of  the  fair. 

Less  shone  the  tresses  Egypt’s  princess  wore, 
Which  sweet  Callimachus  so  sung  before, 

Here  courtly  trifles  set  the  world  at  odds, 


68 


THE  POEMS 


Belles  war  with  beaux,  and  whims  descend  for  gods. 
The  new  machines  in  names  of  ridicule, 

Mock  the  grave  frenzy  of  the  chymic  fool : 

But  know,  ye  fair,  a point  conceal’d  with  art, 

The  Sylphs  and  Gnomes  are  but  a woman’s  heart : 
The  Graces  stand  in  sight ; a Satyr  train 
Peep  o’er  their  heads,  and  laugh  behind  the  scene. 

% 

In  Fame’s  fair  temple,  o’er  the  boldest  wits 
Inshrin’d  on  high  the  sacred  Yirgil  sits, 

And  sits  in  measures,  such  as  Virgil’s  Muse 
To  place  thee  near  him  might  be  fond  to  choose. 
How  might  he  tune  th’  alternate  reed  with  thee, 
Perhaps  a Strephon  thou,  a Daphnis  he, 

While  some  old  Damon  o’er  the  vulgar  wise, 
Thinks  he  deserves,  and  thou  deserv’st  the  prize ! 
Rapt  with  the  thought  my  fancy  seeks  the  plains, 
And  turns  me  shepherd  while  I hear  the  strains. 
Indulgent  nurse  of  every  tender  gale, 

Parent  of  flowerets,  old  Arcadia,  hail ! 

Here  in  the  cool  my  limbs  at  ease  I spread, 

Here  let  thy  poplars  whisper  o’er  my  head  ; 

Still  slide  thy  waters  soft  among  the  trees, 

Thy  aspins  quiver  in  a breathing  breeze ; 

Smile  all  thy  valleys  in  eternal  spring, 

Be  hush’d,  ye  winds  ! while  Pope  and  Virgil  sing 

In  English  lays,  and  all  sublimely  great, 

Thy  Homer  warms  with  all  his  ancient  heat ; 

He  shines  in  council,  thunders  in  the  fight, 


OF  PARNELL. 


69 


And  flames  with  every  sense  of  great  delight. 
Long  has  that  poet  reign’d,  and  long  unknown, 
Like  monarchs  sparkling  on  a distant  throne  ; 

In  all  the  majesty  of  Greek  retir’d, 

Himself  unknown,  his  mighty  name  admir’d ; 

His  language  failing,  wrapp’d  him  round  with 
night 

Thine,  rais’d  by  thee,  recalls  the  work  to  light. 

So  wealthy  mines,  that  ages  long  before 
Fed  the  large  realms  around  with  golden  ore, 
When  chok’d  by  sinking  banks,  no  more  appear, 
And  shepherds  only  say,  the  mines  were  here ! 
Should  some  rich  youth,  if  nature  warm  his  heart, 
And  all  his  projects  stand  inform’d  with  art, 

Here  clear  the  caves,  there  ope  the  leading  vein ; 
The  mines  detected  flame  with  gold  again. 

How  vast,  how  copious  are  thy  new  designs ! 
How  every  music  varies  in  thy  lines ! 

Still  as  I read,  I feel  my  bosom  beat, 

And  rise  in  raptures  by  another’s  heat. 

Thus  in  the  wood,  when  summer  dress’d  the  days, 
When  Windsor  lent  us  tuneful  hours  of  ease, 

Our  ears  the  lark,  the  thrush,  the  turtle  blest, 
And  Philomela,  sweetest  o’er  the  rest : 

The  shades  resound  with  song — O softly  tread  ! 
While  a whole  season  warbles  round  my  head. 

This  to  my  friend — and  when  a friend  inspires, 
My  silent^harp  its  master’s  hand  requires, 


70 


THE  POEMS 


Shakes  off  the  dust,  and  makes  these  rocks  resound, 
For  fortune  plac’d  me  in  unfertile  ground  ; 

Far  from  the  joys  that  with  my  soul  agree, 

From  wit,  from  learning, — far,  O far  from  thee  ! 
Here  moss-grown  trees  expand  the  smallest  leaf, 
Here  half  an  acre’s  corn  is  half  a sheaf ; 

Here  hills  with  naked  heads  the  tempest  meet, 
Rocks  at  their  side,  and  torrents  at  their  feet ; 

Or  lazy  lakes,  unconscious  of  a flood, 

Whose  dull  brown  Naiads  ever  sleep  in  mud. 

Yet  here  content  can  dwell,  and  learned  ease, 

A friend  delight  me,  and  an  author  please  ; 

Even  here  I sing,  while  Pope  supplies  the  theme, 
Show  my  own  love,  though  not  increase  his  fame. 


OF  PARNELL. 


71 


A TRANSLATION  OF  PART  OF  THE  FIRST 
CANTO  OF  THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK. 


INTO  LEONINE  VERSE,  AFTER  THE  MANNER  OF  THE  ANCIENT 
MONKS. 

Et  nunc  dilectum  spepulum,  pro  more  re  tectum, 
Emicat  in  mensa,  quae  splendet  pyxide  densa. 
Turn  primum  lympha  se  purgat  Candida  nympha ; 
Jamque  sine  menda,  coelestis  imago  videnda, 
Nuda  caput,  bellos  retine t,  regit,  implet,  ocellos. 
Hac  stupet  explorans,  seu  cultus  numen  adorans. 
Inferior  claram  Pythonissa  apparet  ad  aram, 
Fertque  tibi  caute,  dicatque  superbia  ! laute, 


PART  OF  THE  FIRST  CANTO  OF  THE  RAPE 
OF  THE  LOCK. 

And  now  unveil’d  the  toilet  stands  display’d, 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid, 

First  rob’d  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores, 
With  head  uncover’d,  the  cosmetic  powers. 

A heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears, 

To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears  : 
Th’  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar’s  side, 
Trembling,  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 


72 


THE  POEMS 


Dona  venusta  ; oris,  quae  cunctis,  plena  laboris, 
Excerpta  explorat,  dominamque  deamque  decorat. 
Pyxide  devota,  se  pandit  hie  India  tota, 

Et  tota  ex  ista  transpirat  Arabia  cista. 

Testudo  hie  flectit  dum  se  mea  Lesbia  pectit ; 
Atque  elephas  lente  te  pectit,  Lesbia,  dente ; 
Hunc  maculis  noris,  nivei  jacet  ille  coloris. 

Hie  jacet  et  munde  mundus  muliebris  abunde  ; 
Spinula  resplendens  aeris  longo  ordine  pendens, 
Pulvis  suavis  odore,  et  epistola  suavis  amore. 
Induit  arma  ergo  Yeneris  pulcherrima  virgo, 
Pulchrior  in  prsesens  tempus  de  tempore  crescens; 
Jam  reparat  risus,  jam  surgit  gratia  visus, 

Jam  promit  cultu  miracula  latentia  vultu  ; 


Unnumber’d  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear ; 

From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 

And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil. 
This  casket  India’s  glowing  gems  unlocks, 

And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 

The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Transform’d  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the  white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  Bibles,  billet  doux. 

Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms, 

The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Bepairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 


OF  PARNELL. 


73 


Pigmina  jam  miscet,  quo  plus  sua  purpura  gliscet, 
Et  geminans  bellis  splendet  mage  fulgor  ocellis. 
Stant  Lemures  muti,  nymphae  intentique  saluti, 
Hie  figit  zonam,  capiti  locat  ille  coronam, 

Haec  manicis  formam,  plicis  dat  et  altera  normam  ; 
Et  tibi  vel  Betty,  tibi  vel  nitidissima  Letty ! 
Gloria  factor um  temere  conceditur  horum. 


And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face  ; 

Sees  by  degrees  a purer  blush  arise, 

And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 

The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care  ; 
These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair, 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  while  others  plait  the  gown, 
And  Betty ’s  prais’d  for  labours  not  her  own. 


74 


THE  POEMS 


HEALTH.  AN  ECLOGUE. 


Now  early  shepherds  o’er  the  meadow  pass, 

And  print  long  footsteps  in  the  glittering  grass  ; 
The  cows  neglectful  of  their  pasture  stand, 

By  turns  obsequious  to  the  milker’s  hand. 


When  Damon  softly  trod  the  shaven  lawn, 
Damon,  a youth  from  city  cares  withdrawn ; 

Long  was  the  pleasing  walk  he  wander’d  through, 
A cover’d  arbour  clos’d  the  distant  view ; [throng 
There  rests  the  youth,  and,  while  the  feather’d 
Raise  their  wild  music,  thus  contrives  a song. 


Here,  wafted  o’er  by  mild  Etesian  air, 

Thou  country  goddess,  beauteous  Health,  repair ! 
Here  let  my  breast  through  quivering  trees  inhale 
Thy  rosy  blessings  with  the  morning  gale. 

What  are  the  fields,  or  flowers,  or  all  I see  ? 

Ah ! tasteless  all,  if  not  enjoy’d  with  thee. 


Joy  to  my  soul ! I feel  the  Goddess  nigh, 

The  face  of  nature  cheers  as  well  as  I ; 

O’er  the  flat  green  refreshing  breezes  run, 

The  smiling  daisies  blow  beneath  the  sun, 

The  brooks  run  purling  down  with  silver  waves, 
The  planted  lanes  rejoice  with  dancing  leaves, 


OF  PARNELL. 


75 


The  chirping  birds  from  all  the  compass  rove 
To  tempt  the  tuneful  echoes  of  the  grove : 

High  sunny  summits,  deeply  shaded  dales, 
Thick  mossy  banks,  and  flowery  winding  vales, 
With  various  prospect  gratify  the  sight, 

And  scatter  fix’d  attention  in  delight. 


Come,  country  Goddess,  come ! nor  thou  suffice, 
But  bring  thy  mountain-sister,  Exercise. 

Call’d  by  thy  lively  voice,  she  turns  her  pace, 
Her  winding  horn  proclaims  the  finish’d  chase  ; 
She  mounts  the  rocks,  she  skims  the  level  plain, 
Dogs,  hawks,  and  horses,  crowd  her  early  train  ; 
Her  hardy  face  repels  the  tanning  wind, 

And  lines  and  meshes  loosely  float  behind. 

All  these  as  means  of  toil  the  feeble  see, 

But  these  are  helps  to  pleasure  join’d  with  thee. 

Let  Sloth  lie  softening  till  high  noon  in  down, 

Or  lolling  fan  her  in  the  sultry  town, 

Unnerv’d  with  rest ; and  turn  her  own  disease, 
Or  foster  others  in  luxurious  ease  : 

I mount  the  courser,  call  the  deep-mouth’d  hounds. 
The  fox  unkennell’d  flies  to  covert  grounds  ; 

I lead  where  stags  through  tangled  thickets  tread, 
And  shake  the  saplings  with  their  branching  head ; 
I make  the  falcons  wing  their  airy  way, 

And  soar  to  seize,  or  stooping  strike  their  prey ; 
To  snare  the  fish  I fix  the  luring  bait ; 

To  wound  the  fowl  I load  the  gun  with  fate. 


76 


THE  POEMS 


’Tis  thus  through  change  of  exercise  I range, 
And  strength  and  pleasure  rise  from  every  change. 
Here,  beauteous  Health,  for  all  the  year  remain ; 
When  the  next  comes,  I’ll  charm  thee  thus  again. 

O come,  thou  Goddess  of  my  rural  song, 

And  bring  thy  daughter,  calm  Content,  along ! 
Dame  of  the  ruddy  cheek  and  laughing  eye, 

From  whose  bright  presence  clouds  of  sorrow  fly: 
For  her  I mow  my  walks,  I plat  my  bowers, 

Clip  my  low  hedges,  and  support  my  flowers ; 

To  welcome  her,  this  summer  seat  I drest, 

And  here  I court  her  when  she  comes  to  rest ; 
When  she  from  exercise  to  learned  ease 
Shall  change  again,  and  teach  the  change  to  please. 

Now  friends  conversing  my  soft  hours  refine, 

And  Tully’s  Tusculum  revives  in  mine : 

Now  to  grave  books  I bid  the  mind  retreat, 

And  such  as  make  me  rather  good  than  great ; 
Or  o’er  the  works  of  easy  fancy  rove, 

Where  flutes  and  innocence  amuse  the  grove ; 
The  native  bard  that  on  Sicilian  plains 
First  sung  the  lowly  manners  of  the  swains, 

Or  Maro’s  Muse,  that  in  the  fairest  light 
Paints  rural  prospects  and  the  charms  of  sight : 
These  soft  amusements  bring  content  along, 

And  fancy,  void  of  sorrow,  turns  to  song. 

Here,  beauteous  Health,  for  all  the  year  remain ; 
When  the  next  comes,  I’ll  charm  thee  thus  again  ; 


OF  PARNELL. 


77 


THE  FLIES.  AN  ECLOGUE. 

When  in  the  river  cows  for  coolness  stand, 

And  sheep  for  breezes  seek  the  lofty  land, 

A youth,  whom  AEsop  taught  that  every  tree, 
Each  bird  and  insect,  spoke  as  well  as  he, 

Walk’d  calmly  musing  in  a shaded  way, 

Where  flowering  hawthorn  broke  the  sunny  ray, 
And  thus  instructs  his  moral  pen  to  draw 
A scene  that  obvious  in  the  field  he  saw. 

Near  a low  ditch,  where  shallow  waters  meet, 
Which  never  learnt  to  glide  with  liquid  feet, 
Whose  Naiads  never  prattle  as  they  play, 

But  screen’d  with  hedges  slumber  out  the  day, 
There  stands  a slender  fern’s  aspiring  shade, 
Whose  answering  branches  regularly  laid 
Put  forth  their  answering  boughs,  and  proudly  rise 
Three  stories  upward,  in  the  nether  skies. 

For  shelter  here,  to  shun  the  noonday  heat, 

An  airy  nation  of  the  flies  retreat ; 

Some  in  soft  air  their  silken  pinions  ply, 

And  some  from  bough  to  bough  delighted  fly, 
Some  rise,  and  circling  light  to  perch  again ; 

A pleasing  murmur  hums  along  the  plain. 

So,  when  a stage  invites  to  pageant  shows, 

If  great  and  small  are  like,  appear  the  beaux ; 


78 


THE  POEMS 


In  boxes  some  with  spruce  pretension  sit, 

Some  change  from  seat  to  seat  within  the  pit, 
Some  roam  the  scenes,  or  turning  cease  to  roam  ; 
Preluding  music  fills  the  lofty  dome. 

When  thus  a fly  (if  what  a fly  can  say 
Deserves  attention)  rais’d  the  rural  lay. 

Where  late  Amintor  made  a nymph  a bride, 
Joyful  I flew  by  young  Favonia’s  side, 

Who,  mindless  of  the  feasting,  went  to  sip 
The  balmy  pleasure  of  the  shepherd’s  lip. 

I saw  the  wanton,  where  I stoop’d  to  sup, 

And  half  resolv’d  to  drown  me  in  the  cup ; 

Till  brush’d  by  careless  hands,  she  soar’d  above ; 
Cease,  beauty,  cease  to  vex  a tender  love. 

Thus  ends  the  youth,  the  buzzing  meadow  rung, 
And  thus  the  rival  of  his  music  sung. 

When  suns  by  thousands  shone  in  orbs  of  dew, 

I wafted  soft  with  Zephyretta  flew ; 

Saw  the  clean  pail,  and  sought  the  milky  cheer, 
While  little  Daphne  seiz’d  my  roving  dear. 
Wretch  that  I was  ! I might  have  warn’d  the  dame, 
Yet  sat  indulging  as  the  danger  came. 

But  the  kind  huntress  left  her  free  to  soar : 

Ah  ! guard,  ye  lovers,  guard  a mistress  more. 

Thus  from  the  fern,  whose  high-projecting  arms, 
The  fleeting  nation  bent  with  dusky  swarms, 


OF  PARNELL. 


79 


The  swains  their  love  in  easy  music  breathe, 
When  tongues  and  tumult  stun  the  field  beneath. 
Black  ants  in  teams  come  darkening  all  the  road, 
Some  call  to  march,  and  some  to  lift  the  load ; 
They  strain,  they  labour  with  incessant  pains, 
Press’d  by  the  cumbrous  weight  of  single  grains. 
The  flies,  struck  silent,  gaze  with  wronder  down : 
The  busy  burghers  reach  their  earthy  town, 
Where  lay  the  burthens  of  a wintry  store, 

And  thence  unwearied  part  in  search  of  more. 
Yet  one  grave  sage  a moment’s  space  attends, 
And  the  small  city’s  loftiest  point  ascends, 

Wipes  the  salt  dew  that  trickles  down  his  face, 
And  thus  harangues  them  with  the  gravest  grace. 

Ye  foolish  nurslings  of  the  summer  air, 

These  gentle  tunes  and  whining  songs  forbear ; 
Your  trees  and  whispering  breeze,  your  grove  and 
love, 

Your  Cupid’s  quiver,  and  his  mother’s  dove. 

Let  bards  to  business  bend  their  vigorous  wing, 
And  sing  but  seldom,  if  they  love  to  sing : 

Else,  when  the  flowerets  of  the  season  fail, 

And  this  your  ferny  shade  forsakes  the  vale, 
Though  one  would  save  ye,  not  one  grain  of  wheat 
Should  pay  such  songsters  idling  at  my  gate. 

He  ceas’d : the  flies,  incorrigibly  vain, 

Heard  the  mayor’s  speech,  and  fell  to  sing  again. 


80 


THE  POEMS 


AN  ELEGY,  TO  AN  OLD  BEAUTY. 

In  vain,  poor  nymph,  to  please  our  youthful  sight 
You  sleep  in  cream  and  frontlets  all  the  night, 
Your  face  with  patches  soil,  with  paint  repair, 
Dress  with  gay  gowns,  and  shade  with  foreign  hair. 
If  truth,  in  spite  of  manners,  must  be  told, 

Why  really  fifty-five  is  something  old. 

Once  you  were  young ; or  one,  whose  life  ’s  so  long 
She  might  have  borne  my  mother,  tells  me  wrong ; 
And  once,  since  envy  ’s  dead  before  you  die, 

The  women  own,  you  play’d  a sparkling  eye, 
Taught  the  light  foot  a modish  little  trip, 

And  pouted  with  the  prettiest  purple  lip. 

To  some  new  charmer  are  the  roses  fled, 

Which  blew,  to  damask  all  thy  cheek  with  red ; 
Youth  calls  the  Graces  there  to  fix  their  reign, 
And  airs  by  thousands  fill  their  easy  train. 

So  parting  summer  bids  her  flowery  prime 
Attend  the  sun  to  dress  some  foreign  clime, 

While  withering  seasons  in  succession,  here, 

Strip  the  gay  gardens,  and  deform  the  year. 

But  thou,  since  nature  bids,  the  world  resign  ; 

’Tis  now  thy  daughter’s  daughter’s  time  to  shine. 


OF  PARNELL. 


81 


With  more  address,  or  such  as  pleases  more, 

She  runs  her  female  exercises  o’er, 

Unfurls  or  closes,  raps  or  turns  the  fan, 

And  smiles,  or  blushes  at  the  creature  man. 

With  quicker  life,  as  gilded  coaches  pass, 

In  sideling  courtesy  she  drops  the  glass. 

With  better  strength,  on  visit-days,  she  bears 
To  mount  her  fifty  flights  of  ample  stairs. 

Her  mien,  her  shape,  her  temper,  eyes,  and  tongue, 
Are  sure  to  conquer, — for  the  rogue  is  young ; 
And  all  that ’s  madly  wild,  or  oddly  gay, 

We  call  it  only  pretty  Fanny’s  way. 

Let  time,  that  makes  you  homely,  make  you 
sage; 

The  sphere  of  wisdom  is  the  sphere  of  age. 

’Tis  true,  when  beauty  dawns  with  early  fire, 
And  hears  the  flattering  tongues  of  soft  desire, 

If  not  from  virtue,  from  its  gravest  ways 
The  soul  with  pleasing  avocation  strays  : 

But  beauty  gone,  ’tis  easier  to  be  wise  ; 

As  harpers  better,  by  the  loss  of  eyes. 

Henceforth  retire,  reduce  your  roving  airs, 

Haunt  less  the  plays,  and  more  the  public  prayers, 
Reject  the  Mechlin  head,  and  gold  brocade, 

Go  pray,  in  sober  Norwich  crape  array’d. 

Thy  pendant  diamonds  let  thy  Fanny  take, 
(Their  trembling  lustre  shows  how  much  yoja 
shake ;) 


6 


82 


THE  POEMS 


Or  bid  her  wear  thy  necklace  row’d  with  pearl, 
You  ’ll  find  your  Fanny  an  obedient  girl. 

So  for  the  rest,  with  less  incumbrance  hung, 

You  walk  through  life,  unmingled  with  the  young ; 
And  view  the  shade  and  substance,  as  you  pass, 
With  joint  endeavour  trifling  at  the  glass, 

Or  Folly  drest,  and  rambling  all  her  days, 

To  meet  her  counterpart,  and  grow  by  praise  : 
Yet  still  sedate  yourself,  and  gravely  plain, 

You  neither  fret,  nor  envy  at  the  vain. 

’Twas  thus,  if  man  with  woman  we  compare, 

The  wise  Athenian  cross’d  a glittering  fair. 
Unmov’d  by  tongues  and  sights,  he  walk’d  the 
place, 

Through  tape,  toys,  tinsel,  gimp,  perfume,  and 
lace  ; 

Then  bends  from  Mars’s  hill  his  awful  eyes, 

And — 4 What  a world  I never  want ! ’ he  cries ; 
But  cries  unheard;  for  Folly  will  be  free. 

So  parts  the  buzzing  gaudy  crowd,  and  he : 

As  careless  he  for  them,  as  they  for  him ; 

He  wrapt  in  wisdom,  and  they  whirl’d  by  whim. 


OF  PARNELL. 


THE  BOOK-WORM. 

Come  hither,  boy,  we  ’ll  hunt  to-day 
The  book-worm,  ravening  beast  of  prey, 
Produc’d  by  parent  Earth,  at  odds, 

As  fame  reports  it,  with  the  gods. 

Him  frantic  hunger  wildly  drives 
Against  a thousand  authors’  lives  : 
Through  all  the  fields  of  wit  he  flies ; 
Dreadful  his  head  with  clustering  eyes, 
With  horns  without,  and  tusks  within, 
And  scales  to  serve  him  for  a skin. 
Observe  him  nearly,  lest  he  climb 
To  wound  the  bards  of  ancient  time, 

Or  down  the  vale  of  fancy  go 
To  tear  some  modern  wretch  below. 

On  every  corner  fix  thine  eye, 

Or  ten  to  one  he  slips  thee  by. 

See  where  his  teeth  a passage  eat : 
We’ll  rouse  him  from  the  deep  retreat. 
But  who  the  shelter ’s  forc’d  to  give  ? 
’Tis  sacred  Virgil,  as  I live  ! 

From  leaf  to  leaf,  from  song  to  song, 

He  draws  the  tadpole  form  along, 

He  mounts  the  gilded  edge  before, 

He ’s  up,  he  scuds  the  cover  o’er, 


84 


THE  POEMS 


He  turns,  he  doubles,  there  he  past, 
And  here  we  have  him,  caught  at  last. 

Insatiate  brute,  whose  teeth  abuse 
The  sweetest  servants  of  the  Muse — 
Nay,  never  offer  to  deny, 

I took  thee  in  the  fact  to  fly. 

His  roses  nipt  in  every  page, 

My  poor  Anacreon  mourns  thy  rage ; 
By  thee  my  Ovid  wounded  lies ; 

By  thee  my  Lesbia’s  Sparrow  dies ; 
Thy  rabid  teeth  have  half  destroy’d 
The  work  of  love  in  Biddy  Floyd  ; 
They  rent  Belinda’s  locks  away, 

And  spoil’d  the  Blouzelind  of  Gay. 

For  all,  for  every  single  deed, 
Relentless  justice  bids  thee  bleed: 

Then  fall  a victim  to  the  Nine, 

Myself  the  priest,  my  desk  the  shrine. 

Bring  Homer,  Virgil,  Tasso  near, 

To  pile  a sacred  altar  here  : 

Hold,  boy,  thy  hand  outruns  thy  wit, 
You  reach’d  the  plays  that  Dennis  writ 
You  reach’d  me  Philips’  rustic  strain ; 
Pray  take  your  mortal  bards  again. 

Come,  bind  the  victim, — there  he  lies, 
And  here  between  his  numerous  eyes 


OF  PARNELL. 


85 


This  venerable  dust  I lay, 

From  manuscripts  just  swept  away. 

The  goblet  in  my  hand  I take, 

For  the  libation  ?s  yet  to  make : 

A health  to  poets  ! all  their  days, 

May  they  have  bread,  as  well  as  praise ; 
Sense  may  they  seek,  and  less  engage 
In  papers  fill’d  with  party  rage. 

But  if  their  riches  spoil  their  vein, 

Ye  Muses,  make  them  poor  again. 

Now  bring  the  weapon,  yonder  blade, 
With  which  my  tuneful  pens  are  made. 

I strike  the  scales  that  arm  thee  round, 
And  twice  and  thrice  I print  the  wound ; 
The  sacred  altar  floats  with  red, 

And  now  he  dies,  and  now  he ’s  dead. 

How  like  the  son  of  Jove  I stand, 

This  Hydra  stretch’d  beneath  the  hand  ! 
Lay  bare  the  monster’s  entrails  here, 

To  see  what  dangers  threat  the  year  : 

Ye  gods ! what  sonnet  on  a wencli ! 

What  lean  translations  out  of  French ! 
’Tis  plain,  this  lobe  is  so  unsound, 

S prints,  before  the  months  go  round. 

But  hold,  before  I close  the  scene, 

The  sacred  altar  should  be  clean. 


86 


THE  POEMS 


0 had  I Shadwell’s  second  bays, 

Or,  Tate,  thy  pert  and  humble  lays  ! 
(Ye  pair,  forgive  me,  when  I vow 

1 never  miss’d  your  works  till  now,) 

I’d  tear  the  leaves  to  wipe  the  shrine, 
That  only  way  you  please  the  Nine  : 
But  since  I chance  to  want  these  two, 

I ’ll  make  the  songs  of  Durfey  do. 

Rent  from  the  corps,  on  yonder  pin, 

I hang  the  scales  that  brac’d  it  in ; 

I hang  my  studious  morning  gown, 

And  write  my  own  inscription  down. 

4 This  trophy  from  the  Python  won, 
This  robe,  in  which  the  deed  was  done, 
These,  Parnell,  glorying  in  the  feat, 
Hung  on  these  shelves,  the  Muses’  seat. 
Here  Ignorance  and  Hunger  found 
Large  realms  of  wit  to  ravage  round ; 
Here  Ignorance  and  Hunger  fell ; 

Two  foes  in  one  I sent  to  hell. 

Ye  poets  who  my  labours  see, 

Come  share  the  triumph  all  with  me  ! 
Ye  critics,  born  to  vex  the  Muse, 

Go  mourn  the  grand  ally  you  lose ! ’ 


OF  PARNELL. 


87 


AN  ALLEGORY  ON  MAN. 

A thoughtful  being,  long  and  spare, 
Our  race  of  mortals  call  him  Care, 

(Were  Homer  living,  well  he  knew 
What  name  the  gods  have  call’d  him  too,) 
With  fine  mechanic  genius  wrought, 

And  lov’d  to  work,  though  no  one  bought. 

This  being,  by  a model  bred 
In  Jove’s  eternal  sable  head, 

Contriv’d  a shape  impower’d  to  breathe/ 
And  be  the  worldling  here  beneath. 


The  man  rose  staring,  like  a stake ; 
Wondering  to  see  himself  awake  ! 
Then  look’d  so  wise,  before  he  knew 
The  business  he  was  made  to  do ; 
That,  pleas’d  to  see  with  what  a grace 
He  gravely  show’d  his  forward  face, 
Jove  talk’d  of  breeding  him  on  high, 
An  under-something  of  the  sky. 

But  ere  he  gave  the  mighty  nod, 
Which  ever  binds  a poet’s  god : 

(For  which  his  curls  ambrosial  shake, 
And  mother  Earth ’s  oblig’d  to  quake,) 


88 


THE  POEMS 


He  saw  old  mother  Earth  arise, 

She  stood  confess’d  before  his  eyes ; 

But  not  with  what  we  read  she  wore, 

A castle  for  a crown  before, 

Nor  with  long  streets  and  longer  roads 
Dangling  behind  her,  like  commodes ; 

As  yet  with  wreaths  alone  she  drest, 

And  trail’d  a landskip-painted  vest. 

Then  thrice  she  rais’d,  as  Ovid  said, 

And  thrice  she  bow’d  her  weighty  head. 

Her  honours  made,  great  Jove,  she  cried, 
This  thing  was  fashion’d  from  my  side ; 

His  hands,  his  heart,  his  head,  are  mine ; 
Then  what  hast  thou  to  call  him  thine  ? 

Nay  rather  ask,  the  monarch  said, 

What  boots  his  hand,  his  heart,  his  head, 
Were  what  I gave  remov’d  away? 

Thy  part ’s  an  idle  shape  of  clay. 

Halves,  more  than  halves,  cried  honest  Care 
Your  pleas  would  make  your  titles  fair, 

You  claim  the  body,  you  the  soul, 

But  I who  join’d  them,  claim  the  whole. 

Thus  with  the  gods  debate  began, 

On  such  a trivial  cause,  as  man. 

And  can  celestial  tempers  rage? 

Quoth  Yirgil  in  a later  age. 


OF  PARNELL. 


89 


As  thus  they  wrangled,  Time  came  by ; 
(There ’s  none  that  paint  him  such  as  I, 
For  what  the  fabling  ancients  sung 
Makes  Saturn  old,  when  Time  was  young.) 
As  yet  his  winters  had  not  shed 
Their  silver  honours  on  his  head ; 

He  just  had  got  his  pinions  free 
From  his  old  sire  Eternity. 

A serpent  girdled  round  he  wore, 

The  tail  within  the  mouth,  before ; 

By  which  our  almanacks  are  clear 
That  learned  Egypt  meant  the  year. 

A staff  he  carried,  where  on  high 
A glass  was  fix’d  to  measure  by, 

As  amber  boxes  made  a show 
For  heads  of  canes  an  age  ago. 

His  vest,  for  day,  and  night,  was  py’d ; 

A bending  sickle  arm’d  his  side  ; 

And  spring’s  new  months  his  train  adorn ; 
The  other  seasons  were  unborn. 

Known  by  the  gods,  as  near  he  draws, 
They  make  him  umpire  of  the  cause. 

O’er  a low  trunk  his  arm  he  laid, 

Where  since  his  hours  a dial  made ; 

Then  leaning  heard  the  nice  debate, 

And  thus  pronounc’d  the  words  of  fate. 

Since  body  from  the  parent  Earth, 

And  soul  from  Jove  receiv’d  a birth, 


90 


THE  POEMS 


Return  they  where  they  first  began ; 

But  since  their  union  makes  the  man, 

Till  Jove  and  Earth  shall  part  these  two, 
To  Care,  who  join’d  them,  man  is  due. 

He  said,  and  sprung  with  swift  career 
To  trace  a circle  for  the  year ; 

Where  ever  since  the  seasons  wheel, 

And  tread  on  one  another’s  heel. 

’Tis  well,  said  Jove ; and  for  consent 
Thundering  he  shook  the  firmament : 

Our  umpire  Time  shall  have  his  way, 
With  Care  I let  the  creature  stay. 

Let  business  vex  him,  avarice  blind. 

Let  doubt  and  knowledge  rack  his  mind, 
Let  error  act,  opinion  speak, 

And  want  afflict,  and  sickness  break, 

And  anger  burn,  dejection  chill, 

And  joy  distract,  and  sorrow  kill ; 

Till,  arm’d  by  Care,  and  taught  to  mow, 
Time  draws  the  long  destructive  blow ; 
And  wasted  man,  whose  quick  decay 
Comes  hurrying  on  before  his  day, 

Shall  only  find  by  this  decree, 

The  soul  flies  sooner  back  to  me. 


OF  PAKNELL. 


91 


AN  IMITATION  OF  SOME  FRENCH  VERSES. 

Relentless  Time ! destroying  power, 

Whom  stone  and  brass  obey, 

Who  giv’st  to  every  flying  hour 
To  work  some  new  decay ; 

Unheard,  unheeded,  and  unseen, 

Thy  secret  saps  prevail, 

And  ruin  man,  a nice  machine, 

By  nature  form’d  to  fail. 

My  change  arrives ; the  change  I meet, 

Before  I thought  it  nigh : 

My  spring,  my  years  of  pleasure  fleet, 

And  all  their  beauties  die. 

In  age  I search,  and  only  find 
A poor  unfruitful  gain, 

Grave  Wisdom  stalking  slow  behind, 

Oppress’d  with  loads  of  pain. 

My  ignorance  could  once  beguile, 

And  fancied  joys  inspire  ; 

My  errors  cherish’d  Hope  to  smile 
On  newly-born  Desire. 

But  now  experience  shews  the  bliss 
For  which  I fondly  sought, 

Not  worth  the  long  impatient  wish, 

And  ardour  of  the  thought. 

My  youth  met  Fortune  fair  array’d, 

(In  all  her  pomp  she  shone,) 


92 


THE  POEMS 


And  might,  perhaps,  have  well  essay’d 
To  make  her  gifts  my  own : 

But  when  I saw  the  blessings  shower 
On  some  unworthy  mind, 

I left  the  chase,  and  own’d  the  power 
Was  justly  painted  blind, 

I pass’d  the  glories  which  adorn 
The  splendid  courts  of  kings, 

And  while  the  persons  mov’d  my  scorn, 

I rose  to  scorn  the  things. 

My  manhood  felt  a vigorous  fire, 

By  love  increas’d  the  more ; 

But  years  with  coming  years  conspire 
To  break  the  chains  I wore. 

In  weakness  safe,  the  sex  I see 
With  idle  lustre  shine ; 

For  what  are  all  their  joys  to  me, 

Which  cannot  now  be  mine  ? 

But  hold — I feel  my  gout  decrease, 

My  troubles  laid  to  rest, 

And  truths,  which  would  disturb  my  peace, 
Are  painful  truths  at  best. 

Vainly  the  time  I have  to  roll 
In  sad  reflection  flies  ; 

Ye  fondling  passions  of  my  soul ! 

Ye  sweet  deceits ! arise. 

I wisely  change  the  scene  within, 

To  things  that  us’d  to  please ; 

In  pain,  philosophy  is  spleen, 

In  health,  ’tis  only  ease. 


OF  PARNELL. 


93 


A NIGHT-PIECE  ON  DEATH. 

By  the  blue  taper’s  trembling  light, 

No  more  I waste  the  wakeful  night, 

Intent  with  endless  view  to  pore 
The  schoolmen  and  the  sages  o’er ; 

Their  books  from  wisdom  widely  stray, 

Or  point  at  best  the  longest  way. 

I’ll  seek  a readier  path,  and  go 
Where  wisdom ’s  surely  taught  below. 

How  deep  yon  azure  dyes  the  sky, 

Where  orbs  of  gold  unnumber’d  lie, 

While  through  their  ranks  in  silver  pride 
The  nether  crescent  seems  to  glide  ! 

The  slumbering  breeze  forgets  to  breathe, 
The  lake  is  smooth  and  clear  beneath, 
Where  once  again  the  spangled  show 
Descends  to  meet  our  eyes  below. 

The  grounds  which  on  the  right  aspire, 

In  dimness  from  the  view  retire : 

The  left  presents  a place  of  graves, 
Whose  wall  the  silent  water  laves. 

That  steeple  guides  thy  doubtful  sight 
Among  the  livid  gleams  of  night. 

There  pass,  with  melancholy  state. 

By  all  the  solemn  heaps  of  fate, 


94 


THE  POEMS 


And  think,  as  softly-sad  you  tread 
Above  the  venerable  dead, 

4 Time  was,  like  thee  they  life  possest, 

And  time  shall  be,  that  thou  shalt  rest.’ 

Those  graves,  with  bending  osier  bound, 

That  nameless  heave  the  crumbled  ground, 
Quick  to  the  glancing  thought  disclose, 

Where  toil  and  poverty  repose. 

The  flat  smooth  stones  that  bear  a name, 

The  chisel’s  slender  help  to  fame, 

(Which  ere  our  set  of  friends  decay 
Their  frequent  steps  may  wear  away,) 

A middle  race  of  mortals  own, 

Men,  half  ambitious,  all  unknown. 

The  marble  tombs  that  rise  on  high, 

Whose  dead  in  vaulted  arches  lie, 

Whose  pillars  swell  with  sculptur’d  stones, 
Arms,  angels,  epitaphs,  and  bones. 

These,  all  the  poor  remains  of  state, 

Adorn  the  rich,  or  praise  the  great ; 

Who  while  on  earth  in  fame  they  live, 

Are  senseless  of  the  fame  they  give. 

Hah ! while  I gaze,  pale  Cynthia  fades, 

The  bursting  earth  unveils  the  shades ! 

All  slow,  and  wan,  and  wrapp’d  with  shrouds, 
They  rise  in  visionary  crowds, 


OF  PARNELL. 


95 


And  all  with  sober  accent  cry, 

6 Think,  mortal,  what  it  is  to  die.5 

Now  from  yon  black  and  funeral  yew, 

That  bathes  the  charnel-house  with  dew, 
Methinks  I hear  a voice  begin  ; 

(Ye  ravens,  cease  your  croaking  din, 

Ye  tolling  clocks,  no  time  resound 
05er  the  long  lake  and  midnight  ground !) 

It  sends  a peal  of  hollow  groans, 

Thus  speaking  from  among  the  bones. 

6 When  men  my  scythe  and  darts  supply, 
How  great  a king  of  fears  am  I ! 

They  view  me  like  the  last  of  things  : 

They  make,  and  then  they  dread,  my  stings. 
Fools  ! if  you  less  provok’d  your  fears, 

No  more  my  spectre  form  appears. 

Death  5s  but  a path  that  must  be  trod, 

If  man  would  ever  pass  to  God ; 

A port  of  calms,  a state  of  ease 
From  the  rough  rage  of  swelling  seas. 

‘ Why  then  thy  flowing  sable  stoles, 

Deep  pendant  cypress,  mourning  poles, 
Loose  scarfs  to  fall  athwart  thy  weeds, 

Long  palls,  drawn  hearses,  cover’d  steeds, 
And  plumes  of  black,  that,  as  they  tread, 
Nod  o’er  the  scutcheons  of  the  dead  ? 

‘ Nor  can  the  parted  body  know, 

Nor  wants  the  soul,  these  forms  of  woe. 


96 


THE  POEMS 


As  men  who  long  in  prison  dwell, 

With  lamps  that  glimmer  round  the  cell, 
Whene’er  their  suffering  years  are  run, 
Spring  forth  to  greet  the  glittering  sun  : 
Such  joy,  though  far  transcending  sense, 
Have  pious  souls  at  parting  hence. 

On  earth,  and  in  the  body  plac’d, 

A few,  and  evil  years  they  waste ; 

But  when  their  chains  are  cast  aside, 

See  the  glad  scene  unfolding  wide, 

Clap  the  glad  wing,  and  tower  away 
And  mingle  with  the  blaze  of  day. 


OF  PARNELL. 


A HYMN  TO  CONTENTMENT. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind ! 

Sweet  delight  of  human-kind ! 
Heavenly -born  and  bred  on  high, 

To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below, 

Than  victors  in  a triumph  know ! 
Whither,  O whither  art  thou  fled, 

To  lay  thy  meek,  contented  head  ; 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease ! 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Of  pomp  and  state,  to  meet  thee  there. 
Encreasing  Avarice  would  find 
Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrin’d. 

The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way 
Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 
To  gain  thy  love ; and  then  perceives 
Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 
The  silent  heart,  which  grief  assails, 
Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o’er  the  vales, 
Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 

And  seeks,  as  I have  vainly  done, 
Amusing  thought ; but  learns  to  know 
7 


98 


THE  POEMS 


That  solitude  *s  the  nurse  of  woe. 

No  real  happiness  is  found 
In  trailing  purple  o’er  the  ground  ; 

Or  in  a soul  exalted  high, 

To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky, 

Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
All  nature  in  its  forms  below ; 

The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 

And  doubts  at  last,  for  knowledge,  rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear ! 

This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 

Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 

And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

’Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I stood, 

I sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 

And  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceiv’d 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  wav’d : 

It  seem’d,  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confess’d  the  presence  of  the  Grace. 
When  thus  she  spoke — “ Go  rule  thy  will, 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still, 

Know  God — and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow : 

Then  every  Grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I ’ll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest. 

Oh ! by  yonder  mossy  seat, 

In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat, 


OF  PARNELL. 


99 


Might  I thus  my  soul  employ, 

With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy  ! 

Rais’d  as  ancient  prophets  were, 

In  heavenly  vision,  praise,  and  prayer ; 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none, 

Pleas’d  and  bless’d  with  God  alone : 

Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 
With  all  the  colours  of  delight ; 

While  silver  waters  glide  along, 

To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song; 

I ’ll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string, 

And  thee,  great  source  of  nature,  sing. 

The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way, 

To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day ; 

The  moon  that  shines  with  borrow’d  light ; 
The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night ; 

The  seas  that  roll  unnumber’d  waves  ; 

The  wood  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves  ; 
The  field  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain, 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain  ; 

All  of  these,  and  all  I see, 

Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me  : 

They  speak  their  maker  as  they  can, 

But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 

Go  search  among  your  idle  dreams, 

Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes ; 

And  find  a life  of  equal  bliss, 

Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 


100 


THE  POEMS 


THE  HERMIT. 

Far  in  a wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 

From  youth  to  age  a reverend  hermit  grew ; 

The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 

His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well : 
Remote  from  man,  with  God  he  pass’d  the  days, 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 

Seem’d  heaven  itself,  till  one  suggestion  rose  ; 
That  vice  should  triumph,  virtue  vice  obey, 

This  sprung  some  doubt  of  Providence’s  sway  : 
His  hopes  no  more  a certain  prospect  boast, 

And  all  the  tenour  of  his  soul  is  lost. 

So  when  a smooth  expanse  receives  imprest 
Calm  nature’s  image  on  its  watery  breast, 

Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending  grow, 
And  skies  beneath  with  answering  colours  glow  : 
But  if  a stone  the  gentle  scene  divide, 

Swift  ruffling  circles  curl  on  every  side, 

And  glimmering  fragments  of  a broken  sun, 
Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by  sight, 
To  find  if  books,  or  swains,  report  it  right, 

(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he  knew, 
Whose  feet  came  wandering  o’er  the  nightly  dew,) 


OF  PARNELL. 


101 


He  quits  his  cell ; the  pilgrim-staff  he  bore, 

And  fix’d  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before  ; 

Then  with  the  sun  a rising  journey  went, 

Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 

The  morn  was  wasted  in  the  pathless  grass, 

And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild  to  pass  ; 
But  when  the  southern  sun  had  warm’d  the  day, 
A youth  came  posting  o’er  a crossing  way  ; 

His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair, 

And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  wav’d  his  hair. 

Then  near  approaching,  “ Father,  hail ! ” he  cried ; 
“And  hail,  my  son,”  the  reverend  sire  replied  ; 
Words  follow’d  words,  from  question  answer  flow’d, 
And  talk  of  various  kind  deceiv’d  the  road  ; 

Till  each  with  other  pleas’d,  and  loth  to  part, 
While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart : 
Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 

Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  sun  ; the  closing  hour  of  day 
Came  onward,  mantled  o’er  with  sober  gray ; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose  ; 

When  near  the  road  a stately  palace  rose  : 

There  by  the  moon  through  ranks  of  trees  they  pass, 
Whose  verdure  crown’d  their  sloping  sides  of  grass. 
It  chanc’d  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 
Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stranger’s  home : 
Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a thirst  of  praise, 
Prov’d  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 


102 


THE  POEMS 


The  pair  arrive  : the  liveried  servants  wait ; 
Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate. 
The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food, 

And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 

Then  led  to  rest,  the  day’s  long  toil  they  drown, 
Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of  down. 

At  length  ’tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play ; 

Fresh  o’er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep, 
And  shake  the  neighbouring  wood  to  banish 
sleep. 

Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call : 

An  early  banquet  deck’d  the  splendid  hall ; 

Rich  luscious  wine  a golden  goblet  grac’d, 

Which  the  kind  master  forc’d  the  guests  to  taste. 
Then,  pleas’d  and  thankful,  from  the  porch  they  go ; 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe ; 
His  cup  was  vanish’d ; for  in  secret  guise 
The  younger  guest  purloin’d  the  glittering  prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a serpent  in  his  way, 
Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 
Disorder’d  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near, 

Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with  fear ; 
So  seem’d  the  sire  ; when  far  upon  the  road, 

The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show’d. 

He  stopp’d  with  silence,  walk’d  with  trembling 
heart, 

And  much  he  wish’d,  but  durst  not  ask  to  part : 


OF  PARNELL. 


103 


Murmuring  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it  hard, 
That  generous  actions  meet  a base  reward. 

While  thus  they  pass,  the  sun  his  glory  shrouds, 
The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sable  clouds  ; 
A sound  in  air  presag’d  approaching  rain, 

And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Warn’d  by  the  signs,  the  wandering  pair  retreat, 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a neighbouring  seat. 

’Twas  built  with  turrets,  on  a rising  ground, 

And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimprov’d  around  ; 
Its  owner’s  temper,  timorous  and  severe, 

Unkind  and  griping,  caus’d  a desert  there. 

As  near  the  miser’s  heavy  doors  they  drew, 
Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew ; 

The  nimble  lightning  mix’d  with  showers  began, 
And  o’er  their  heads  loud  rolling  thunder  ran. 
Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in  vain, 
Driven  by  the  wind,  and  batter’d  by  the  rain. 

At  length  some  pity  warm’d  the  master’s  breast, 
(’Twas  then,  his  threshold  first  receiv’d  a guest,) 
Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care, 
And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair  ; 

One  frugal  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls, 

And  nature’s  fervour  through  their  limbs  recalls  : 
Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager  wine, 

Each  hardly  granted,  serv’d  them  both  to  dine ; 
And  when  the  tempest  first  appear’d  to  cease, 

A ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 


104 


THE  POEMS 


With  still  remark  the  pondering  hermit  view’d 
In  one  so  rich,  a life  so  poor  and  rude ; 

And  why  should  such,  within  himself  he  cried, 
Lock  the  lost  wealth  a thousand  want  beside  ? 
But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  took  place 
In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face, 

When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion  bore 
That  cup,  the  generous  landlord  own’d  before, 
And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 
The  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul ! 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly ; 

The  sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky ; 

A fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display, 

And,  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the  day : 
The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor  retreat, 
And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 

[wrought 

While  hence  they  walk,  the  pilgrim’s  bosom 
With  all  the  travel  of  uncertain  thought ; 

His  partner’s  acts  without  their  cause  appear, 
’Twas  there  a vice,  and  seem’d  a madness  here : 
Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes, 

Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 

Now  night’s  dim  shades  again  involve  the  sky, 
Again  the  wanderers  want  a place  to  lie, 

Again  they  search,  and  find  a lodging  nigh : 

The  soil  improv’d  around,  the  mansion  neat, 

And  neither  poorly  low,  nor  idly  great : 


OF  PARNELL. 


105 


It  seem’d  to  speak  its  master’s  turn  of  mind, 
Content,  and  not  for  praise,  but  virtue  kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  turn  with  weary  feet, 

Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master  greet : 
Their  greeting  fair  bestow’d,  with  modest  guise, 
The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies : 

“ Without  a vain,  without  a grudging  heart, 

To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I yield  a part ; 

From  him  you  come,  for  him  accept  it  here, 

A frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer.” 

He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 
Then  talk’d  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed, 

When  the  grave  household  round  his  hall  repair, 
Warn’d  by  a bell,  and  close  the  hours  with  prayer. 

At  length  the  world,  renew’d  by  calm  repose, 
Was  strong  for  toil,  the  dappled  morn  arose. 
Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept 
Near  the  clos’d  cradle  where  an  infant  slept, 

And  writh’d  his  neck ; the  landlord’s  little  pride, 
0 strange  return ! grew  black,  and  gasp’d,  and  died. 
Horror  of  horrors  ! what ! his  only  son  ! 

How  look’d  our  hermit  when  the  fact  was  done  ? 
Not  hell,  though  hell’s  black  jaws  in  sunder  part, 
And  breathe  blue  fire,  could  more  assault  his  heart. 

Confus’d,  and  struck  with  silence  at  the  deed, 

He  flies,  but,  trembling,  fails  to  fly  with  speed. 


106 


THE  POEMS 


His  steps  the  youth  pursues  ; the  country  lay 
Perplex’d  with  roads,  a servant  show’d  the  way; 
A river  cross’d  the  path ; the  passage  o’er 
Was  nice  to  find  ; the  servant  trod  before : 

Long  arms  of  oaks  an  open  bridge  supplied, 

And  deep  the  waves  beneath  the  bending  glide. 
The  youth,  who  seem’d  to  watch  a time  to  sin, 
Approach’d  the  careless  guide,  and  thrust  him  in  ; 
Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising  lifts  his  head, 

Then  flashing  turns,  and  sinks  among  the  dead. 

Wild,  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father’s  eyes. 
He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries, 

“ Detested  wretch!” — but  scarce  his  speech  began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seem’d  no  longer  man : 
His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet ; 

His  robe  turn’d  white,  and  flow’d  upon  his  feet ; 
Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair ; 
Celestial  odours  breathe  through  purpled  air ; 
And  wings,  whose  colours  glitter’d  on  the  day, 
Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  display, 
The  form  ethereal  bursts  upon  his  sight, 

And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim’s  passion  grew, 
Sudden  he  gaz’d,  and  wist  not  what  to  do : 
Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends, 

And  in  a calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 

But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke, 

The  voice  of  music  ravish’d  as  he  spoke. 


OF  PARNELL. 


107 


u Thy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice  unknown. 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne  : 

These  charms,  success  in  our  bright  region  find, 
And  force  an  angel  down,  to  calm  thy  mind ; 

For  this,  commission’d,  I forsook  the  sky, 

Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow-servant  I. 

“ Then  know  the  truth  of  government  divine, 

And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 

“ The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he  made 
In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid ; 

Its  sacred  majesty  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends : 

’Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human  eye, 
The  power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high, 

Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will, 

And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 

“ What  strange  events  can  strike  with  more  surprise 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wondering  eyes? 
Yet  taught  by  these,  confess  th’  Almighty  just, 
And  where  you  can’t  unriddle,  learn  to  trust ! 

“ The  great,  vain  man,  who  far’d  on  costly  food, 
Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good ; 

Who  made  his  ivory  stands  with  goblets  shine, 
And  forc’d  his  guests  to  morning  draughts  of  wine, 
Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  lost, 

And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 


108 


THE  POEMS 


“ The  mean,  suspicious  wretch,  whose  bolted  door 
Ne'er  mov’d  in  duty  to  the  wandering  poor  ; 

With  him  I left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  heaven  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be  kind. 
Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the  bowl, 
And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul. 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead, 

With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  its  head ; 

In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  to  glow, 

And  loose  from  dross,  the  silver  runs  below. 

“ Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod, 

But  now  the  child  lialf-wean’d  his  heart  from  God ; 
Child  of  his  age,  for  him  he  liv’d  in  pain, 

And  measur’d  back  his  steps  to  earth  again. 

To  what  excesses  had  this  dotage  run  ! 

But  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  the  son. 

To  all  but  thee,  in  fits  he  seem’d  to  go, 

And  ’twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow. 

The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the  dust, 

Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was  just. 

“ But  how  had  all  his  fortune  felt  a wrack, 

Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  back  ! 

This  night  his  treasur’d  heaps  he  meant  to  steal, 
And  what  a fund  of  charity  would  fail ! 

Thus  Heaven  instructs  thy  mind : this  trial  o’er, 
Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more  ” 


OF  PARNELL. 


109 


On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  withdrew, 
The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph  flew. 
Thus  look’d  Elisha,  when,  to  mount  on  high, 

His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky ; 

The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  the  view ; 

The  prophet  gaz’d,  and  wish’d  to  follow  too. 

The  bending  hermit  here  a prayer  begun, 
u Lord ! as  in  heaven,  on  earth  thy  will  be  done  ! ” 
Then  gladly  turning,  sought  his  ancient  place, 
And  pass’d  a life  of  piety  and  peace. 


110 


THE  POEMS 


PIETY : OR  THE  VISION. 

’Twas  when  the  night  in  silent  sable  fled, 

When  cheerful  morning  sprung  with  rising  red, 
When  dreams  and  vapours  leave  to  crowd  the  brain, 
And  best  the  vision  draws  its  heavenly  scene ; 
’Twas  then,  as  slumbering  on  my  couch  I lay, 

A sudden  splendour  seem’d  to  kindle  day, 

A breeze  came  breathing  in  a sweet  perfume, 
Blown  from  eternal  gardens,  fill’d  the  room ; 

And  in  a void  of  blue,  that  clouds  invest, 
Appear’d  a daughter  of  the  realms  of  rest ; 

Her  head  a ring  of  golden  glory  wore,  . 

Her  honour’d  hand  the  sacred  volume  bore, 

Tier  raiment  glittering  seem’d  a silver  white, 

And  all  her  sweet  companions  sons  of  light. 

Straight  as  I gaz’d,  my  fear  and  wonder  grew, 
Fear  barr’d  my  voice,  and  wonder  fix’d  my  view ; 
When  lo ! a cherub  of  the  shining  crowd 
That  sail’d  as  guardian  in  her  azure  cloud, 

Fann’d  the  soft  air,  and  downwards  seem’d  to  glide, 
And  to  my  lips  a living  coal  applied. 

Then  while  the  warmth  o’er  all  my  pulses  ran 
Diffusing  comfort,  thus  the  maid  began  : 

“ Where  glorious  mansions  are  prepar’d  above, 
The  seats  of  music,  and  the  seats  of  love, 


OF  PARNELL. 


Ill 


Thence  I descend,  and  Piety  my  name, 

To  warm  thy  bosom  with  celestial  flame, 

To  teach  thee  praises  mix’d  with  humble  prayers, 
And  tune  thy  soul  to  sing  seraphic  airs. 

Be  thou  my  bard.”  A vial  here  she  caught, 

(An  angel’s  hand  the  crystal  vial  brought,) 

And  as  with  awful  sound  the  word  was  said, 

She  pour’d  a sacred  unction  on  my  head ; 

Then  thus  proceeded : “ Be  thy  Muse  thy  zeal, 
Dare  to  be  good,  and  all  my  joys  reveal. 

While  other  pencils  flattering  forms  create, 

And  paint  the  gaudy  plumes  that  deck  the  great ; 
While  other  pens  exalt  the  vain  delight, 

Whose  wasteful  revel  wakes  the  depth  of  night ; 

Or  others  softly  sing  in  idle  lines 

How  Damon  courts,  or  Amaryllis  shines ; 

More  wisely  thou  select  a theme  divine, 

Fame  is  their  recompense,  ’tis  heaven  is  thine. 
Despise  the  raptures  of  discorded  fire, 

Where  wine,  or  passion,  or  applause  inspire 
Low  restless  life,  and  ravings  born  of  earth, 
Whose  meaner  subjects  speak  their  humble  birth, 
Like  working  seas,  that,  when  loud  winters  blow, 
Not  made  for  rising,  only  rage  below. 

Mine  is  a warm  and  yet  a lambent  heat, 

More  lasting  still,  as  more  intensely  great, 
Produc’d  where  prayer,  and  praise,  and  pleasure 
breathe, 

And  ever  mounting  whence  it  shot  beneath. 
Unpaint  the  love,  that,  hovering  over  beds, 


112 


THE  POEMS 


From  glittering  pinions  guilty  pleasure  sheds  ; 
Restore  the  colour  to  the  golden  mines 
With  which  behind  the  feather’d  idol  shines ; 

To  flowering  greens  give  back  their  native  care, 
The  rose  and  lily,  never  his  to  wear ; 

To  sweet  Arabia  send  the  balmy  breath ; 

Strip  the  fair  flesh,  and  call  the  phantom  Death  ; 
His  bow  be  sabled  o’er,  his  shafts  the  same, 

And  fork  and  point  them  with  eternal  flame. 

“ But  urge  thy  powers,  thine  utmost  voice  ad- 
vance, 

Make  the  loud  strings  against  thy  fingers  dance ; 
’Tis  love  that  angels  praise  and  men  adore, 

’Tis  love  divine  that  asks  it  all  and  more. 

Fling  back  the  gates  of  ever-blazing  day, 

Pour  floods  of  liquid  light  to  gild  the  way ; 

And  all  in  glory  wrapt,  through  paths  untrod, 
Pursue  the  great  unseen  descent  of  God  ; 

Hail  the  meek  virgin,  bid  the  child  appear, 

The  child  is  God,  and  call  him  Jesus  here. 

He  comes,  but  where  to  rest  ? A manger ’s  nigh, 
Make  the  great  Being  in  a manger  lie ; 

Fill  the  wide  sky  with  angels  on  the  wing, 

Make  thousands  gaze,  and  make  ten  thousand 
sing; 

Let  men  afflict  him,  men  he  came  to  save, 

And  still  afflict  him  till  he  reach  the  grave ; 

Make  him  resign’d,  his  loads  of  sorrow  meet, 

And  me,  like  Mary,  weep  beneath  his  feet ; 


OF  PARNELL. 


113 


I ’ll  bathe  my  tresses  there,  my  prayers  rehearse, 
And  glide  in  flames  of  love  along  thy  verse. 

“Ah  ! while  I speak,  I feel  my  bosom  swell, 

My  raptures  smother  what  I long  to  tell. 

’Tis  God ! a present  God  ! through  cleaving  air 
I see  the  throne,  and  see  the  Jesus  there 
Plac’d  on  the  right.  He  shows  the  wounds  he  bore, 
(My  fervours  oft  have  won  him  thus  before)  ; 
How  pleas’d  he  looks ! my  words  have  reach’d  his 
ear; 

He  bids  the  gates  unbar ; and  calls  me  near.” 

[tread 

She  ceas’d.  The  cloud  on  which  she  seem’d  to 
Its  curls  unfolded,  and  around  her  spread ; 

Bright  angels  waft  their  wings  to  raise  the  cloud, 
And  sweep  their  ivory  lutes,  and  sing  aloud ; 

The  scene  moves  off,  while  all  its  ambient  sky 
Is  turn’d  to  wondrous  music  as  they  fly ; 

And  soft  the  swelling  sounds  of  music  grow, 

And  faint  their  softness,  till  they  fail  below. 

My  downy  sleep  the  warmth  of  Phoebus  broke, 
And  while  my  thoughts  were  settling,  thus  I spoke. 
u Thou  beauteous  vision  ! on  the  soul  impress’d, 
When  most  my  reason  would  appear  to  rest, 
’Twas  sure  with  pencils  dipt  in  various  lights 
Some  curious  angel  limn’d  thy  sacred  sights ; 
From  blazing  suns  his  radiant  gold  he  drew, 
While  moons  the  silver  gave,  and  air  the  blue. 

8 


114 


THE  POEMS 


I ’ll  mount  the  roving  wind’s  expanded  wing, 
And  seek  the  sacred  hill,  and  light  to  sing ; 
(’Tis  known  in  Jewry  well)  I’ll  make  my  lays, 
Obedient  to  thy  summons,  sound  with  praise.” 

But  still  I fear,  un warm’d  with  holy  dame, 

I take  for  truth  the  datteries  of  a dream ; 

And  barely  wish  the  wondrous  gift  I boast, 
And  faintly  practise  what  deserves  it  most. 

Indulgent  Lord ! whose  gracious  love  displays 
Joy  in  the  light,  and  dlls  the  dark  with  ease ! 
Be  this,  to  bless  my  days,  no  dream  of  bliss  ; 
Or  be,  to  bless  the  nights,  my  dreams  like  this. 


OF  PARNELL. 


115 


BACCHUS:  OR,  THE  DRUNKEN 
METAMORPHOSIS. 

As  Bacchus,  ranging  at  his  leisure, 

(Jolly  Bacchus,  king  of  pleasure !) 

Charm’d  the  wide  world  with  drink  and  dances 
And  all  his  thousand  airy  fancies, 

Alas  ! he  quite  forgot  the  while 
His  favourite  vines  in  Lesbos  isle. 

The  god,  returning  ere  they  died, 

“Ah ! see  my  jolly  Fauns,”  he  cried, 

“ The  leaves  but  hardly  born  are  red, 

And  the  bare  arms  for  pity  spread  : 

The  beasts  afford  a rich  manure  ; 

Fly,  my  boys,  to  bring  the  cure ; 

Up  the  mountains,  o’er  the  vales, 

Through  the  woods,  and  down  the  dales  ; 

For  this,  if  full  the  clusters  grow, 

Your  bowls  shall  doubly  overflow.” 

So  cheer’d,  with  more  officious  haste 
They  bring  the  dung  of  every  beast ; 

The  loads  they  wheel,  the  roots  they  bare, 
They  lay  the  rich  manure  with  care  ; 

While  oft  he  calls  to  labour  hard, 

And  names  as  oft  the  red  reward. 


116 


THE  POEMS 


The  plants  refresh’d,  new  leaves  appear, 
The  thickening  clusters  load  the  year ; 

The  season  swiftly  purple  grew, 

The  grapes  hung  dangling  deep  with  blue. 

A vineyard  ripe,  a day  serene 
Now  calls  them  all  to  work  again. 

The  Fauns  through  every  furrow  shoot 
To  load  their  flaskets  with  the  fruit ; 

And  now  the  vintage  early  trod, 

The  wines  invite  the  jovial  god. 

Strow  the  roses,  raise  the  song, 

See  the  master  comes  along ; 

Lusty  Revel  join’d  with  laughter, 

Whim  and  Frolic  follow  after: 

The  Fauns  aside  the  vats  remain, 

To  show  the  work,  and  reap  the  gain. 

All  around,  and  all  around, 

They  sit  to  riot  on  the  ground ; 

A vessel  stands  amidst  the  ring, 

And  here  they  laugh,  and  there  they  sing 
Or  rise  a jolly  jolly  band, 

And  dance  about  it  hand  in  hand ; 

Dance  about,  and  shout  amain, 

Then  sit  to  laugh  and  sing  again. 

Thus  they  drink,  and  thus  they  play 
The  sun  and  all  their  wits  away. 

But,  as  an  ancient  author  sung, 

The  vine  manur’d  with  every  dung, 


OF  PARNELL. 


117 


From  every  creature  strangely  drew 
A twang  of  brutal  nature  too ; 

’Twas  hence  in  drinking  on  the  lawns 
New  turns  of  humour  seiz’d  the  Fauns. 

Here  one  was  crying  out,  “ By  Jove  ! ” 
Another,  “ Fight  me  in  the  grove ; ” 

This  wounds  a friend,  and  that  the  trees ; 
The  lion’s  temper  reign’d  in  these. 

Another  grins,  and  leaps  about, 

And  keeps  a merry  world  of  rout, 

And  talks  impertinently  free, 

And  twenty  talk  the  same  as  he ; 

Chattering,  idle,  airy,  kind  ; 

These  take  the  monkey’s  turn  of  mind. 

Here  one,  that  saw  the  Nymphs  which  stood 
To  peep  upon  them  from  the  wood, 

Skulks  off  to  try  if  any  maid 
Be  lagging  late  beneath  the  shade  ; 

While  loose  discourse  another  raises 
In  naked  nature’s  plainest  phrases, 

And  every  glass  he  drinks  enjoys, 

With  change  of  nonsense,  lust,  and  noise  ; 
Mad  and  careless,  hot  and  vain ; 

Such  as  these  the  goat  retain. 

Another  drinks  and  casts  it  up, 

And  drinks,  and  wants  another  cup ; 


118 


THE  POEMS 


Solemn,  silent,  and  sedate, 

Ever  long,  and  ever  late, 

Full  of  meats,  and  full  of  wine; 

This  takes  his  temper  from  the  swine. 

Here  some  who  hardly  seem  to  breathe, 
Drink,  and  hang  the  jaw  beneath. 
Gaping,  tender,  apt  to  weep ; 

Their  nature  ’s  alter’d  by  the  sheep. 

’Twas  thus  one  autumn  all  the  crew, 

(If  what  the  poets  say  be  true) 

While  Bacchus  made  the  merry  feast, 
Inclin’d  to  one  or  other  beast ; 

And  since,  ’tis  said,  for  many  a mile 
He  spread  the  vines  of  Lesbos  isle. 


/ 


OF  PARNELL. 


119 


DR.  DONNE’S  THIRD  SATIRE  VERSIFIED. 

Compassion  checks  my  spleen,  yet  scorn  denies 
The  tears  a passage  through  my  swelling  eyes : 
To  laugh  or  weep  at  sins,  might  idly  show 
Unheedful  passion,  or  unfruitful  woe. 

Satire ! arise,  and  try  thy  sharper  ways, 

If  ever  satire  cur’d  an  old  disease. 

Is  not  religion  (Heaven-descended  dame) 

As  worthy  all  our  soul’s  devoutest  flame, 

As  moral  Virtue  in  her  early  sway, 

When  the  best  Heathens  saw  by  doubtful  day  ? 
Are  not  the  joys,  the  promis’d  joys  above, 

As  great  and  strong  to  vanquish  earthly  love, 

As  earthly  glory,  fame,  respect,  and  show, 

As  all  rewards  their  virtue  found  below  ? 

Alas  ! Religion  proper  means  prepares, 

These  means  are  ours,  and  must  its  end  be  theirs  ? 
And  shall  thy  father’s  spirit  meet  the  sight 
Of  heathen  sages  cloth’d  in  heavenly  light, 

Whose  merit  of  strict  life,  severely  suited 
To  reason’s  dictates,  may  be  faith  imputed, 
Whilst  thou,  to  whom  he  taught  the  nearer  road, 
Art  ever  banish’d  from  the  blest  abode  ? 

Oh ! if  thy  temper  such  a fear  can  find, 

This  fear  were  valour  of  the  noblest  kind. 


120 


THE  POEMS 


Dar’st  thou  provoke,  when  rebel  souls  aspire, 

Thy  Maker’s  vengeance,  and  thy  monarch’s  ire ; 
Or  live  entomb’d  in  ships,  thy  leader’s  prey, 

Spoil  of  the  war,  the  famine,  or  the  sea ; 

In  search  of  pearl,  in  depth  of  ocean  breathe, 

Or  live,  exil’d  the  sun,  in  mines  beneath, 

Or,  where  in  tempests  icy  mountains  roll, 
Attempt  a passage  by  the  northern  pole  ? 

Or  dar’st  thou  parch  within  the  fires  of  Spain, 

Or  burn  beneath  the  line,  for  Indian  gain  ? 

Or  for  some  idol  of  thy  fancy  draw 
Some  loose-gown’d  dame  ? O courage  made  of 
straw ! 

Thus,  desperate  coward,  wouldst  thou  bold  appear, 
Yet  when  thy  God  has  plac’d  thee  sentry  here, 
To  thy  own  foes,  to  his,  ignoble  yield, 

And  leave,  for  wars  forbid,  th’  appointed  field  ? 

Know  thy  own  foes  ; th’  apostate  angel ; he 
You  strive  to  please,  the  foremost  of  the  three ; 
He  makes  the  pleasures  of  his  realm  the  bait, 

But  can  he  give  for  love  that  acts  in  hate  ? 

The  world’s  thy  second  love,  thy  second  foe, 

The  world,  whose  beauties  perish  as  they  blow, 
They  fly,  she  fades  herself,  and  at  the  best, 

You  grasp  a wither’d  strumpet  to  your  breast ; 
The  flesh  is  next,  which  in  fruition  wastes, 

High  flush’d  with  all  the  sensual  joys  it  tastes. 
While  men  the  fair,  the  goodly  soul  destroy, 

From  whence  the  flesh  has  power  to  taste  a joy. 


OF  PARNELL. 


121 


Seek  thou  Religion  primitively  sound — 

Well,  gentle  friend,  but  where  may  she  be  found? 

By  faith  implicit  blind  Ignaro  led, 

Thinks  the  bright  seraph  from  his  country  fled, 
And  seeks  her  seat  at  Rome,  because  we  know, 
She  there  was  seen  a thousand  years  ago ; 

And  loves  her  relic  rags,  as  men  obey 
The  foot-cloth  where  the  prince  sat  yesterday. 
These  pageant  forms  are  whining  Obed’s  scorn, 
Who  seeks  Religion  at  Geneva  born, 

A sullen  thing,  whose  coarseness  suits  the  crowd ; 
Though  young,  unhandsome  ; though  unhand- 
some, proud ; 

Thus,  with  the  wanton,  some  perversely  judge 
All  girls  unhealthy  but  the  country  drudge. 

No  foreign  schemes  make  easy  Caepio  roam, 

The  man  contented  takes  his  church  at  home ; 
Nay,  should  some  preachers,  servile  bawds  of  gain, 
Should  some  new  laws,  which  like  new  fashions 
reign, 

Command  his  faith  to  count  salvation  tied, 

To  visit  his,  and  visit  none  beside ; 

He  grants  salvation  centres  in  his  own, 

And  grants  it  centres  but  in  his  alone ; 

From  youth  to  age  he  grasps  the  proffer’d  dame, 
And  they  confer  his  faith,  who  give  his  name ; 

So  from  the  guardian’s  hands  the  wards,  who  live 
Enthrall’d  to  guardians,  take  the  wives  they  give. 


122 


THE  POEMS 


From  all  professions  careless  Airy  flies, 

“ For  all  professions  can’t  be  good,”  he  cries  ; 
And  here  a fault,  and  there  another  views, 

And  lives  unfix’d  for  want  of  heart  to  choose ; 

So  men,  who  know  what  some  loose  girls  have  done, 
For  fear  of  marrying  such,  will  marry  none. 

The  charms  of  all  obsequious  Courtly  strike  ; 

On  each  he  dotes,  on  each  attends  alike ; 

And  thinks,  as  different  countries  deck  the  dame, 
The  dresses  altering,  and  the  sex  the  same : 

So  fares  Religion,  chang’d  in  outward  show, 

But,  ’tis  Religion  still  where’er  we  go  : 

This  blindness  springs  from  an  excess  of  light, . 
And  men  embrace  the  wrong  to  choose  the  right. 
But  thou  of  force  must  one  Religion  own, 

And  only  one,  and  that  the  right  alone ; 

To  find  that  right  one,  ask  thy  reverend  sire, 

Let  his  of  him,  and  him  of  his  inquire ; 

Though  Truth  and  Falsehood  seem  as  twins  allied, 
There ’s  eldership  on  Truth’s  delightful  side ; 

Her  seek  with  heed — who  seeks  the  soundest  first, 
Is  not  of  no  Religion,  nor  the  worst. 

T’  adore,  or  scorn  an  image,  or  protest, 

May  all  be  bad ; doubt  wisely  for  the  best, 
’Twere  wrong  to  sleep,  or  headlong  run  astray ; 

It  is  not  wandering,  to  inquire  the  way. 

On  a large  mountain,  at  the  basis  wide, 

Steep  to  the  top,  and  craggy  at  the  side, 

Sits  Sacred  Truth  enthron’d ; and  he  who  means 


I 


123 


OF  PARNELL. 

To  reach  the  summit,  mounts  with  weary  pains, 
Winds  round  and  round,  and  every  turn  essays, 
Where  sudden  breaks  resist  the  shorter  ways. 
Yet  labour  so,  that  ere  faint  age  arrive, 

Thy  searching  soul  possess  her  rest  alive : 

To  work  by  twilight  were  to  work  too  late, 

And  age  is  twilight  to  the  night  of  fate. 

To  will  alone,  is  but  to  mean  delay, 

To  work  at  present  is  the  use  of  day. 

For  man’s  employ  much  thought  and  deed  remain, 
High  thoughts  the  soul,  hard  deeds  the  body  strain, 
And  mysteries  ask  believing,  which  to  view, 

Like  the  fair  Sun,  are  plain,  but  dazzling  too. 

Be  Truth,  so  found,  with  sacred  heed  possest, 

Not  kings  have  power  to  tear  it  from  thy  breast. 
By  no  blank  charters  harm  they  where  they  hate, 
Nor  are  they  vicars,  but  the  hands  of  fate. 

Ah  ! fool  and  wretch,  who  lett’st  thy  soul  be  tied 
To  human  laws  ! or  must  it  so  be  tried  ? 

Or  will  it  boot  thee,  at  the  latest  day, 

When  Judgment  sits,  and  Justice  asks  thy  plea, 
That  Philip  that,  or  Gregory  taught  thee  this, 

Or  John  or  Martin  ? All  may  teach  amiss : 

For  every  contrary  in  each  extreme 

This  holds  alike,  and  each  may  plead  the  same. 

Wouldst  thou  to  power  a proper  duty  show  ? 

’Tis  thy  first  task  the  bounds  of  power  to  know ; 
The  bounds  once  pass’d,  it  holds  the  same  no  more, 


124 


THE  POEMS 


Its  nature  alters,  which  it  own’d  before, 

Nor  were  submission  humbleness  exprest, 

But  all  a low  idolatry  at  best. 

Power  from  above,  subordinately  spread, 

Streams  like  a fountain  from  th’  eternal  head ; 
There,  calm  and  pure,  the  living  waters  flow, 

But  roars  a torrent  or  a flood  below ; 

Each  flower  ordain’d  the  margins  to  adorn, 

Each  native  beauty,  from  its  roots  is  torn, 

And  left  on  deserts,  rocks  and  sands,  are  tost, 

All  the  long  travel,  and  in  ocean  lost. 

So  fares  the  soul,  which  more  that  power  reveres, 
Man  claims  from  God,  than  what  in  God  inheres. 


OF  PARNELL. 


125 


ON  BISHOP  BURNET’S  BEING  SET  ON  FIRE 
IN  HIS  CLOSET. 

From  that  dire  era,  bane  to  Sarum’s  pride, 
Which  broke  his  schemes,  and  laid  his  friends 
aside, 

He  talks  and  writes  that  popery  will  return, 

And  we,  and  he,  and  all  his  works  will  burn. 
What  touch’d  himself  was  almost  fairly  prov’d  : 
Oh,  far  from  Britain  be  the  rest  remov’d  ! 

For,  as  of  late  he  meant  to  bless  the  age, 

With  flagrant  prefaces  of  party-rage, 

O’erwrought  with  passion,  and  the  subject’s 
weight, 

Lolling,  he  nodded  in  his  elbow  seat ; 

Down  fell  the  candle  ; grease  and  zeal  conspire, 
Heat  meets  with  heat,  and  pamphlets  burn  their 
sire. 

Here  crawls  a preface  on  its  half-burn’d  maggots, 
And  there  an  introduction  brings  its  fagots : 

Then  roars  the  prophet  of  the  northern  nation, 
Scorch’d  by  a flaming  speech  on  moderation. 

Un warn’d  by  this,  go  on,  the  realm  to  fright, 
Thou  Briton  vaunting  in  thy  second-sight ! 

In  such  a ministry  you  safely  tell, 

How  much  you’d  suffer,  if  religion  fell. 


126 


THE  POEMS 


ON  MRS.  ARABELLA  FERMOR  LEAVING 
LONDON. 


From  town  fair  Arabella  flies  ; 

The  beaux  unpowder’d  grieve : 

The  rivers  play  before  her  eyes ; 

The  breezes,  softly  breathing,  rise ; 

The  spring  begins  to  live. 

Her  lovers  swore,  they  must  expire, 

Yet  quickly  find  their  ease ; 

For  as  she  goes,  their  flames  retire ; 
Love  thrives  before  a nearer,  fire, 
Esteem  by  distant  rays. 

Yet  soon  the  fair  one  will  return, 

When  Summer  quits  the  plain : 

Ye  rivers,  pour  the  weeping  urn  ; 

Ye  breezes,  sadly  sighing,  mourn  ; 

Ye  lovers,  burn  again  ! 

’Tis  constancy  enough  in  love 
That  nature ’s  fairly  shown  : 

To  search  for  more,  will  fruitless  prove ; 
Romances,  and  the  turtle-dove, 

The  virtue  boast  alone. 


OF  PARNELL. 


127 


CHLORIS  APPEARING  IN  A LOOKING- 
GLASS. 

Oft  have  I seen  a piece  of  art, 

Of  light  and  shade  the  mixture  fine, 

Speak  all  the  passions  of  the  heart, 

And  show  true  life  in  every  line. 

But  what  is  this  before  my  eyes, 

With  every  feature,  every  grace, 

That  strikes  with  love,  and  with  surprise, 
And  gives  me  all  the  vital  face  ? 

It  is  not  Chloris  : for,  behold, 

The  shifting  phantom  comes  and  goes  ; 

And  when  ’tis  here,  ’tis  pale  and  cold, 

Nor  any  female  softness  knows. 

But  ’tis  her  image,  for  I feel 

The  very  pains  that  Chloris  gives  ; 

Her  charms  are  there,  I know  them  well, 

I see  what  in  my  bosom  lives. 

i 

Oh,  could  I but  the  picture  save  : 

’Tis  drawn  by  her  own  matchless  skill  ; 

Nature  the  lively  colours  gave, 

And  she  need  only  look  to  kill. 


128 


POEMS  OF  PARNELL. 


Ah  ! fair  one,  will  it  not  suffice, 

That  I should  once  your  victim  lie 
Unless  you  multiply  your  eyes, 

And  strive  to  make  me  doubly  die 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


THOMAS  TICKELL. 


\ 

WITH  A LIFE, 

BY  DR.  JOHNSON. 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE,  BROWN  AND  COMPANY. 

KEW  YORK:  EVANS  AND  DICKERSON. 

Philadelphia:  lippincott,  grambo  and  co. 


M.DCCC.LIV. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY*. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  STONE  AND  SMART- 


) 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Life  of  Tickell,  by  Dr.  Johnson 5 

Poems  on  Queen  Caroline’s  Rebuilding  the  Lodgings  of 
the  Black  Prince,  and  Henry  V.  at  Queen’s  College 

Oxford. 13 

To  the  supposed  Author  of  the  Spectator 15 

A Poem,  to  His  Excellency,  the  Lord  Privy  Seal,  on  the 

Prospect  of  Peace 18 

To  Mr.  Addison,  on  his  Opera  of  Rosamond 37 

To  the  same ; on  his  Tragedy  of  Cato 39 

The  Royal  Progress 41 

An  Imitation  of  the  Prophecy  of  Nereus.  From  Horace. 

Book  ii.  Ode  xv 47 

An  Epistle  from  a Lady  in  England  to  a Gentleman  at 

Avignon 50 

An  Ode,  occasioned  by  his  Excellency  the  Earl  of  Stan- 
hope’s Voyage  to  France,  1718 58 

Prologue  to  the  University  of  Oxford,  1713 59 

Thoughts  occasioned  by  the  Sight  of  an  original  Picture 

of  King  Charles  I.  taken  at  the  Time  of  his  Trial. . 62 

A Fragment  of  a Poem  on  Hunting 65 

To  Apollo  making  Love.  From  Monsieur  Fontenelle. ..  71 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Fatal  Curiosity . 72 

To  a Lady:  with  a Description  of  the  Phenix 73 

A Description  of  the  Phenix.  From  Claudian 74 

Verses  to  Mrs.  Lowther  on  her  Marriage.  From  Menage . 79 

To  a Lady ; with  a Present  of  Flowers 80 

On  a Lady’s  Picture:  To  Gilfred  Lawson,  Esq 81 

Part  of  the  fourth  Book  of  Lucan 83 

Dedication  to  the  first  Book  of  Homer’s  Iliad 88 

The  first  Book  of  the  Iliad 91 

To  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Addison. . 117 

Colin  and  Lucy.  A Ballad 121 

To  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  at  his  Country  Seat 124 

On  the  Death  of  the  Earl  of  Cadogan 126 

An  Ode,  inscribed  to  the  Earl  of  Sunderland  at  Windsor.  127 

Kensington  Garden 130 

To  a Lady  before  Marriage 150 

A Poem  in  Praise  of  the  Hornbook 154 

Theristes : or,  the  Lordling,  the  Grandson  of  a Bricklayer, 

Great-Grandson  of  a Butcher 158 

Oxford,  a Poem 161 


THE  LIFE  OF  TICKELL, 


BY  DR.  JOHNSON. 

Thomas  Tickell,  the  son  of  the  Reverend 
Richard  Tickell,  was  born  in  1686,  at  Bridekirk, 
in  Cumberland;  and  in  April,  1701,  became  a 
member  of  Queen’s  College,  in  Oxford ; in  1708, 
he  was  made  master  of  arts ; and,  two  years  after- 
wards, was  chosen  fellow ; for  which,  as  he  did 
not  comply  with  the  statutes  by  taking  orders,  he 
obtained  a dispensation  from  the  Crown.  He  held 
his  fellowship  till  1726,  and  then  vacated  it,  by 
marrying,  in  that  year,  at  Dublin. 

Tickell  was  not  one  of  those  scholars  who  wear 
away  their  lives  in  closets  ; he  entered  early  into 
the  world,  and  was  long  busy  in  public  affairs ; in 
which  he  was  initiated  under  the  patronage  of 
Addison,  whose  notice  he  is  said  to  have  gained 
by  his  verses  in  praise  of  Rosamond. 

To  those  verses  it  would  not  have  been  just  to 
deny  regard ; for  they  contain  some  of  the  most 
elegant  encomiastic  strains  ; and,  among  the  innu- 
merable poems  of  the  same  kind,  it  will  be  hard 


6 


LIFE  OF  TICKELL. 


* 

to  find  one  with,  which  they  need  to  fear  a compa- 
rison. It  may  deserve  observation,  that  when 
Pope  wrote  long  afterwards  in  praise  of  Addison, 
he  has  copied,  at  least  has  resembled,  Tickell. 

Let  joy  salute  fair  Rosamonda’s  shade, 

And  wreaths  of  myrtle  crown  the  lovely  maid. 

While  now  perhaps  with  Dido’s  ghost  she  roves, 

And  hears  and  tells  the  story  of  their  loves, 

Alike  they  mourn,  alike  they  bless  their  fate, 

Since  Love,  which  made  them  wretched,  makes  them  great/ 
Nor  longer  that  relentless  doom  bemoan, 

Which  gain’d  a Virgil  and  an  Addison. 

TICKELL. 

Then  future  ages  with  delight  shall  see 
How  Plato’s,  Bacon’s,  Newton’s  looks  agree; 

Or  in  fair  series  laurell’d  bards  be  shown, 

A Virgil  there,  and  here  an  Addison. 

POPE. 

He  produced  another  piece  of  the  same  kind  at 
the  appearance  of  Cato,  with  equal  skill,  but  not 
equal  happiness. 

When  the  ministers  of  Queen  Anne  were  nego- 
tiating with  France,  Tickell  published  The  Pros- 
pect of  Peace,  a poem,  of  which  the  tendency 
was  to  reclaim  the  nation  from  the  pride  of  con- 
quest to  the  pleasures  of  tranquillity.  How  far 
Tickell,  whom  Swift  afterwards  mentioned  as 
Whiggissimus,  had  then  connected  himself  with 
any  party,  I know  not ; this  poem  certainly  did 
not  flatter  the  practices,  or  promote  the  opinions, 
of  the  men  by  whom  he  was  afterwards  befriended. 

Mr.  Addison,  however  he  hated  the  men  then 


LIFE  OF  TICKELL. 


7 


in  power,  suffered  his  friendship  to  prevail  over 
his  public  spirit,  and  gave  in  the  Spectator  such 
praises  of  Tickell’s  poem,  that  when,  after  having 
long  wished  to  peruse  it,  I laid  hold  on  it  at  last, 
I thought  it  unequal  to  the  honours  which  it  had 
received,  and  found  it  a piece  to  be  approved  ra- 
ther than  admired.  But  the  hope  excited  by  a 
work  of  genius,  being  general  and  indefinite,  is 
rarely  gratified.  It  was  read  at  that  time  with  so 
much  favour,  that  six  editions  were  sold. 

At  the  arrival  of  King  George  he  sung  The 
Royal  Progress;  which,  being  inserted  in  the 
Spectator,  is  well  known ; and  of  which  it  is  just 
to  say,  that  it  is  neither  high  nor  low. 

The  poetical  incident  of  most  importance  in 
Tickell’s  life  was  his  publication  of  the  first  book 
of  the  Iliad,  as  translated  by  himself,  an  apparent 
opposition  to  Pope’s  Homer,  of  which  the  first 
part  made  its  entrance  into  the  world  at  the  same 
time. 

Addison  declared  that  the  rival  versions  were 
both  good ; but  that  Tickell’s  was  the  best  that 
ever  was  made ; and  with  Addison,  the  wits,  his 
adherents  and  followers,  were  certain  to  concur. 
Pope  does  not  appear  to  have  been  much  dis- 
mayed ; “ for,”  says  he,  “ I have  the  town,  that  is, 
the  mob  on  my  side.”  But  he  remarks,  “ that  it 
is  common  for  the  smaller  party  to  make  up  in 
diligence  what  they  want  in  numbers  ; he  appeals 
to  the  people  as  his  proper  judges ; and,  if  they 


8 


LIFE  OF  TICKELL. 


are  not  inclined  to  condemn  him,  he  is  in  little  care 
about  the  high-flyers  at  Button’s.” 

Pope  did  not  long  think  Addison  an  impartial 
judge;  for  he  considered  him  as  the  writer  of 
Tickell’s  version.  The  reasons  for  his  suspicion 
I will  literally  transcribe  from  Mr.  Spence’s  Col- 
lection. 

“ There  had  been  a coldness  (said  Mr.  Pope) 
between  Mr.  Addison  and  me  for  some  time ; and 
we  had  not  been  in  company  together,  for  a good 
while,  any  where  but  at  Button’s  coffee-house, 
where  I used  to  see  him  almost  every  day.  On 
his  meeting  me  there,  one  day  in  particular,  he 
took  me  aside,  and  said  he  should  be  glad  to  dine 
with  me,  at  such  a tavern,  if  I staid  till  those  peo- 
ple were  gone,  (Budgell  and  Philips.)  We  went 
accordingly ; and  after  dinner  Mr.  Addison  said, 
‘ That  he  had  wanted  for  some  time  to  talk  with 
me ; that  his  friend  Tickell  had  formerly,  whilst 
at  Oxford,  translated  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad ; 
that  he  designed  to  print  it,  and  had  desired  him 
to  look  it  over ; that  he  must  therefore  beg  that  I 
would  not  desire  him  to  look  over  my  first  book, 
because,  if  he  did,  it  would  have  the  air  of  double- 
dealing, I assured  him,  that  I did  not  at  all  take 
it  ill  of  Mr.  Tickell  that  he  was  going  to  publish 
his  translation;  that  he  certainly  had  as  much 
right  to  translate  any  author  as  myself ; and  that 
publishing  both  was  entering  on  a fair  stage.  I 
then  added,  that  I would  not  desire  him  to  look 


LIFE  OF  TICKELL. 


9 


over  my  first  book  of  the  Iliad,  because  he  had 
looked  over  Mr.  Tickell’s ; but  could  wish  to  have 
the  benefit  of  his  observations  on  the  second, 
which  I had  then  finished,  and  which  Mr.  Tickell 
had  not  touched  upon.  Accordingly  I sent  him 
the  second  book  the  next  morning  ; and  Mr.  Ad- 
dison a few  days  after  returned  it,  with  very  high 
commendations.  Soon  after  it  was  generally 
known  that  Mr.  Tickell  was  publishing  the  first 
book  of  the  Iliad,  I met  Dr.  Young  in  the  street ; 
and  upon  our  falling  into  that  subject,  the  Doctor 
expressed  a great  deal  of  surprise  at  Tickell’s 
having  had  such  a translation  so  long  by  him.  He 
said,  that  it  was  inconceivable  to  him,  and  that 
there  must  be  some  mistake  in  the  matter ; that 
each  used  to  communicate  to  the  other  whatever 
verses  they  wrote,  even  to  the  least  things ; that 
Tickell  could  not  have  been  busied  in  so  long  a 
work  there  without  his  knowing  something  of  the 
matter ; and  that  he  had  never  heard  a single 
word  of  it  till  on  this  occasion.  The  surprise  of 
Dr.  Young,  together  with  what  Steele  has  said 
against  Tickell  in  relation  to  this  affair,  make  it 
highly  probable  that  there  was  some  underhand 
dealing  in  that  business  ; and  indeed  Tickell  him- 
self, who  is  a very  fair  worthy  man,  has  since,  in 
a manner  as  good  as  owned  it  to  me.  When  it 
was  introduced  into  a conversation  between  Mr. 
Tickell  and  Mr.  Pope,  by  a third  person,  Tickell 
did  not  deny  it;  which,  considering  his  honour 


10 


LIFE  OF  TICKELL. 


and  zeal  for  his  departed  friend,  was  the  same  as 
owning  it.” 

Upon  these  suspicions,  with  which  Dr.  War- 
burton  hints  that  other  circumstances  concurred, 
Pope  always,  in  his  Art  of  Sinking,  quotes  this 
book  as  the  work  of  Addison. 

To  compare  the  two  translations  would  be  te- 
dious ; the  palm  is  now  given  universally  to  Pope ; 
but  I think  the  first  lines  of  TickelFs  were  rather 
to  be  preferred ; and  Pope  seems  to  have  since 
borrowed  something  from  them  in  the  correction 
of  his  own. 

When  the  Hanover  succession  was  disputed, 
Tickell  gave  what  assistance  his  pen  would  supply. 
His  letter  to  Avignon  stands  high  among  party- 
poems  ; it  expresses  contempt  without  coarseness, 
and  superiority  without  insolence.  It  had  the 
success  which  it  deserved,  being  five  times  printed. 

He  was  now  intimately  united  to  Mr.  Addison, 
who,  when  he  went  into  Ireland  as  secretary  to 
the  lord  Sunderland,  took  him  thither  and  em- 
ployed him  in  public  business;  and  when  (1717) 
afterwards  he  rose  to  be  secretary  of  state,  made 
him  under-secretary.  Their  friendship  seems  to 
have  continued  without  abatement ; for  when  Ad- 
dison died,  he  left  him  the  charge  of  publishing 
his  works,  with  a solemn  recommendation  to  the 
patronage  of  Craggs. 

To  these  works  he  prefixed  an  elegy  on  the 
author,  which  could  owe  none  of  its  beauties  to 


LIFE  OF  TICKELL. 


11 


the  assistance  which  might  be  suspected  to  have 
strengthened  or  embellished  his  earlier  composi- 
tions ; but  neither  he  nor  Addison  ever  produced 
nobler  lines  than  are  contained  in  the  third  and 
fourth  paragraphs  ; nor  is  a more  sublime  or  more 
elegant  funeral-poem  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
compass  of  English  literature. 

He  was  afterwards  (about  1725)  made  secre- 
tary to  the  Lords  Justices  of  Ireland,  a place  of 
great  honour;  in  which  he  continued  till  1740, 
when  he  died  on  the  twenty-third  of  April,  at 
Bath. 

Of  the  poems  yet  unmentioned  the  longest  is 
Kensington  Gardens,  of  which  the  versification  is 
smooth  and  elegant,  but  the  fiction  unskilfully 
compounded  of  Grecian  deities  and  Gothic  fairies. 
Neither  species  of  those  exploded  beings  could 
have  done  much ; and,  when  they  are  brought 
together,  they  only  make  each  other  contemptible. 
To  Tickell,  however,  cannot  be  refused  a high 
place  among  the  minor  poets ; nor  should  it  be 
forgotten  that  he  was  one  of  the  contributors  to 
the  Spectator.  With  respect  to  his  personal  cha- 
racter, he  is  said  to  have  been  a man  of  gay  con- 
versation, at  least  a temperate  lover  of  wine  and 
company,  and  in  his  domestic  relations  without 


censure. 


POEMS. 


ON  QUEEN  CAROLINE’S 

REBUILDING  THE  LODGINGS  OF  THE  BLACK  PRINCE, 
AND  HENRY  Y.  AT  QUEEN’S  COLLEGE,  OXFORD. 

Where  bold  and  graceful  soars,  secure  of  fame, 
The  pile,  now  worthy  great  Philippa’s  name, 
Mark  that  old  ruin,  gtfthic  and  uncouth, 

Where  the  Black  Edward  pass’d  his  beardless 
youth  ; 

And  the  Fifth  Henry,  for  his  first  renown, 
Outstripp’d  each  rival  in  a student’s  gown. 

In  that  coarse  age  were  princes  fond  to  dwell 
With  meagre  monks,  and  haunt  the  silent  cell : 
Sent  from  the  monarch’s  to  the  Muse’s  court, 
Their  meals  were  frugal,  and  their  sleeps  were 
short ; 

To  couch  at  curfew  time  they  thought  no  scorn, 
And  froze  at  matins  every  winter-morn  ; 

They  read,  an  early  book,  the  starry  frame, 

And  lisped  each  constellation  by  its  name  ; 


14 


THE  POEMS 


Art  after  art  still  dawning  to  their  view, 

And  their  mind  opening  as  their  stature  grew. 
Yet,  wdiose  ripe  manhood  spread  our  fame  so 
far, 

Sages  in  peace,  and  demi-gods  in  war ! 

Who,  stern  in  fight,  made  echoing  Cressi  ring, 
And,  mild  in  conquest,  serv’d  his  captive  king ! 
Who  gain’d,  at  Agincourt,  the  victor’s  bays  ; 

Nor  took  himself,  but  gave  good  Heaven,  the 
praise ! 

Thy  nurslings,  ancient  dome  ! to  virtue  form’d  ; 
To  mercy  listening,  ^whilst  in  fields  they  storm’d  : 
Fierce  to  the  fierce;  and  warm  the  opprest  to 
save ; 

Through  life  rever’d,  and  worshipp’d  in  the  grave  ! 

In  tenfold  pride  the  mouldering  roofs  shall  shine, 
The  stately  work  of  bountedus  Caroline ; 

And  blest  Philippa,  with  unenvious  eyes, 

From  Heaven  behold  her  rival’s  fabric  rise. 

If  still,  bright  saint,  this  spot  deserves  thy  care, 
Incline  thee  to  the  ambitious  Muse’s  prayer : 

0,  could’st  thou  wrin  young  William’s  bloom  to 
grace 

His  mother’s  walls,  and  fill  thy  Edward’s  place, 
How  would  that  genius  whose  propitious  wings 
Have  here  twice  hover’d  o’er  the  sons  of  kings, 
Descend  triumphant  to  his  ancient  seat, 

And  take  in  charge  a third  Plantagenet ! 


OF  TICKELL. 


15 


TO  THE  SUPPOSED 

AUTHOR  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

In  courts  licentious,  and  a shameless  stage, 

How  long  the  war  shall  wit  with  virtue  wage  ? 
Enchanted  by  this  prostituted  fair, 

Our  youth  run  headlong  in  the  fatal  snare ; 

In  height  of  rapture  clasp  unheeded  pains, 

And  suck  pollution  through  their  tingling  veins  ? 
Thy  spotless  thoughts  unshock’d  the  priest  may 
hear ; 

And  the  pure  vestal  in  her  bosom  wear. 

To  conscious  blushes  and  diminished  pride, 

Thy  glass  betrays  what  treacherous  love  would 
hide ; 

Nor  harsh  thy  precepts,  but  infus’d  by  stealth, 
Pleas’d  while  they  cure,  and  cheat  us  into  health. 
Thy  works  in  Chloe’s  toilet  gain  a part, 

And  with  his  tailor  share  the  fopling’s  heart : 
Lash’d  in  thy  satire,  the  penurious  cit 
Laughs  at  himself,  and  finds  no  harm  in  wit : 
From  felon  gamesters  the  raw  squire  is  free, 

And  Britain  owes  her  rescued  oaks  to  thee. 

Plis  miss  the  frolic  viscount  dreads  to  toast, 

Or  his  third  cure  the  shallow  Templar  boast ; 


16 


THE  POEMS 


And  the  rash  fool,  who  scorn’d  the  beaten  road, 
Dares  quake  at  thunder,  and  confess  his  God. 

The  brainless  stripling,  who,  expell’d  the  town, 
Damn’d  the  stiff  college  and  pedantic  gown, 

Aw’d  by  thy  name,  is  dumb,  and  thrice  a week 
Spells  uncouth  Latin,  and  pretends  to  Greek. 

A sauntering  tribe ! such,  born  to  wide  estates ; 
With  yea  and  no  in  senates  hold  debates  : 

At  length  despised  each  to  his  fields  retires, 

First  with  the  dogs,  and  king  amidst  the  squires; 
From  pert  to  stupid,  sinks  supinely  down, 

In  youth  a coxcomb,  and  in  age  a clown. 

Such  readers  scorn’d,  thou  wing’st  thy  daring 
flight, 

Above  the  stars,  and  tread’st  the  fields  of  light ; 
Fame,  Heaven  and  Hell,  are  thy  exalted  theme, 
And  visions  such  as  Jove  himself  might  dream  ; 
Man  sunk  to  slavery,  though  to  glory  born, 
Heaven’s  pride  when  upright,  and  deprav’d  his 
scorn. 

Such  hints  alone  could  British  Virgil  lend, 
And  thou  alone  deserve  from  such  a friend ; 

A debt  so  borrow’d  is  illustrious  shame, 

And  fame,  when  shar’d  with  him,  is  double  fame. 
So,  flush’d  with  sweets  by  Beauty’s  queen  be- 
stow’d, 

With  more  than  mortal  charms  JEneas  glow’d  : 
Such  generous  strifes  Eugene  and  Marlborough 
try, 

And  as  in  glory,  so  in  friendship,  vie. 


OF  TICKELL. 


17 


Permit  these  lines  by  thee  to  live — nor  blame 
A Muse  that  pants  and  languishes  for  fame ; 

That  fears  to  sink  when  humbler  themes  she  sings, 
Lost  in  the  mass  of  mean  forgotten  things : 
Receiv’d  by  thee,  I prophesy  my  rhymes, 

The  praise  of  virgins  in  succeeding  times : 

Mix’d  with  thy  works,  their  life  no  bounds  shall 
see, 

But  stand  protected,  as  inspir’d,  by  thee. 

So  some  weak  shoot,  which  else  would  poorly 
rise, 

Jove’s  tree  adopts,  and  lifts  him  to  the  skies ; 
Through  the  new  pupil  fostering  juices  flow, 
Thrust  forth  the  gems,  and  give  the  flowers  to 
blow 

Aloft ; immortal  reigns  the  plant  unknown, 

With  borrow’d  life,  and  vigour  not  his  own. 


2 


t 


18 


THE  POEMS 


A POEM, 

TO  HIS  EXCELLENCY,  THE  LORD  PRIVY  SEAL, 
ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  PEACE. 

Sacerdos 

Fronde  super  mitram,  et  felici  comptus  oliva. 

Virg. 


TO  THE  LORD  PRIVY  SEAL. 

Contending  kings,  and  fields  of  death,  too  long 
Have  been  the  subject  of  the  British  song. 

Who  hath  not  read  of  fam’d  Ramillia’s  plain, 
Bavaria’s  fall,  and  Danube  choak’d  with  slain  ! 
Exhausted  themes  ! a gentler  note  I raise, 

And  sing  returning  peace  in  softer  lays. 

Their  fury  quell’d,  and  martial  rage  allay’d, 

I wait  our  heroes  in  the  sylvan  shade  : 
Disbanding  hosts  are  imag’d  to  my  mind, 

And  warring  powers  in  friendly  leagues  combin’d, 
While  ease  and  pleasure  make  the  nations  smile, 
And  Heaven  and  Anna  bless  Britannia’s  isle. 

Well  sends  our  queen  her  mitred  Bristol  forth, 
For  early  counsels  fam’d,  and  long-tried  worth  ; 
Who,  thirty  rolling  years,  had  oft  withheld 
The  Swede  and  Saxon  from  the  dusty  field ; 


OF  TICKELL. 


19 


Completely  form’d  to  heal  the  Christian  wounds, 
To  name  the  kings,  and  give  each  kingdom  bounds  ; 
The  face  of  ravag’d  Nature  to  repair, 

By  leagues  to  soften  earth,  and  Heaven  by  prayer, 
To  gain  by  love,  where  rage  and  slaughter  fail, 
And  make  the  crosier  o’er  the  sword  prevail. 

So  when  great  Moses,  with  J ehovah’s  wand, 
Had  scatter’d  plagues  o’er  stubborn  Pharaoh’s 
land, 

Now  spread  an  host  of  locusts  round  the  shore, 
Now  turn’d  Nile’s  fattening  streams  to  putrid 
gore; 

Plenty  and  gladness  mark’d  the  priest  of  God, 
And  sudden  almonds  shot  from  Aaron’s  rod. 

0 thou  from  whom  these  bounteous  blessings  flow, 
To  whom,  as  chief,  the  hopes  of  peace  we  owe, 
(For  next  to  thee,  the  man  whom  kings  contend 
To  style  companion,  and  to  make  their  friend, 
Great  Strafford,  rich  in  every  courtly  grace, 

With  joyful  pride  accepts  the  second  place,) 

From  Britain’s  isle,  and  Isis’  sacred  spring, 

One  hour,  oh ! listen  while  the  Muses  sing. 
Though  ministers  of  mighty  monarchs  wait, 

With  beating  hearts  to  learn  their  master’s  fate, 
One  hour  forbear  to  speak  thy  queen’s  commands, 
Nor  think  the  world,  thy  charge,  neglected  stands  ; 
The  blissful  prospects,  in  my  verse  display’d 
May  lure  the  stubborn,  the  deceiv’d  persuade : 
Ev’n  thou  to  peace  shalt  speedier  urge  the  way, 
And  more  be  hasten’d  by  this  short  delay. 


20 


THE  POEMS 


ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  PEACE. 

The  haughty  Gaul,  in  ten  campaigns  o’er- 
thrown, 

Now  ceas’d  to  think  the  western  world  his  own. 
Oft  had  he  mourn’d  his  boasting  leaders  bound, 
And  his  proud  bulwarks  smoking  on  the  ground  : 
In  vain  with  powers  renew’d  he  fill’d  the  plain, 
Made  timorous  vows,  and  brib’d  the  saints  in  vain  ; 
As  oft  his  legions  did  the  fight  decline, 

Lurk’d  in  the  trench,  and  skulk’d  behind  the  line. 
Before  his  eyes  the  fancied  javelin  gleams, 

At  feasts  he  starts,  and  seems  dethron’d  in  dreams ; 
On  glory  past  reflects  with  secret  pain, 

On  mines  exhausted,  and  on  millions  slain. 

To  Britain’s  queen  the  scepter’d  suppliant  bends, 
To  her  his  crowns  and  infant  race  commends, 
Who  grieves  her  fame  with  Christian  blood  to  buy, 
Nor  asks  for  glory  at  a price  so  high. 

At  her  decree,  the  war  suspended  stands, 

And  Britain’s  heroes  hold  their  lifted  hands, 
Their  open  brows  no  threatening  frowns  disguise, 
But  gentler  passions  sparkle  in  their  eyes. 

The  Gauls,  who  never  in  their  courts  could  find 
Such  temper’d  fire  with  manly  beauty  join’d, 
Doubt  if  they’re  those,  whom,  dreadful  to  the  view, 
In  forms  so  fierce  their  fearful  fancies  drew ; 

At  whose  dire  names  ten  thousand  widows  prest 
Their  helpless  orphans  clinging  to  the  breast. 


OF  TICKELL. 


21 


In  silent  rapture  each  his  foe  surveys : 

They  vow  firm  friendship,  and  give  mutual  praise. 
Brave  minds,  howe’er  at  war,  are  secret  friends  ; 
Their  generous  discord  with  the  battle  ends ; 

In  peace  they  wonder  whence  dissension  rose, 
And  ask  how  souls  so  like  could  e’er  be  foes. 

Methinks  I hear  more  friendly  shouts  rebound, 
And  social  clarions  mix  their  sprightly  sound. 
The  British  flags  are  furl’d,  her  troops  disband, 
And  scatter’d  armies  seek  their  native  land. 

The  hardy  veteran,  proud  of  many  a scar, 

The  manly  charms  and  honours  of  the  war, 

Who  hop’d  to  share  his  friends’  illustrious  doom, 
And  in  the  battle  find  a soldier’s  tomb, 

Leans  on  his  spear  to  take  his  farewell  view, 
And,  sighing,  bids  the  glorious  camp  adieu. 

Ye  generous  fair,  receive  the  brave  with  smiles, 
O’erpay  their  sleepless  nights,  and  crown  their  toils ; 
Soft  beauty  is  the  gallant  soldier’s  due, 

For  you  they  conquer,  and  they  bleed  for  you. 

In  vain  proud  Gaul  with  boastful  Spain  conspires, 
When  English  valour  English  beauty  fires  ; 

The  nations  dread  your  eyes,  and  kings  despair 
Of  chiefs  so  brave,  till  they  have  nymphs  so  fair. 

See  the  fond  wife  in  tears  of  transport  drown’d, 
Hugs  her  rough  lord,  and  weeps  o’er  every  wound, 
Hangs  on  the  lips  that  fields  of  blood  relate, 

And  smiles,  or  trembles,  at  his  various  fate. 

Near  the  full  bowl  he  draws  the  fancied  line, 

And  marks  feign’d  trenches  in  the  flowing  wine, 


22 


THE  POEMS 


Then  sets  the  invested  fort  before  his  eyes, 

And  mines,  that  whirl’d  battalions  to  the  skies : 
His  little  listening  progeny  turn  pale, 

And  beg  again  to  hear  the  dreadful  tale. 

Such  dire  achievements  sings  the  bard  that  tells 
Of  palfrey’d  dames,  bold  knights,  and  magic  spells, 
Where  whole  brigades  one  champion’s  arms  o’er- 
throw, 

And  cleave  a giant  at  a random  blow, 

Slay  paynims  vile,  that  force  the  fair,  and  tame 
The  goblin’s  fury,  and  the  dragon’s  flame. 

Our  eager  youth  to  distant  nations  run, 

To  visit  fields,  their  valiant  fathers  won ; 

From  Flandria’s  shore  their  country’s  fame  they 
trace, 

Till  far  Germania  shows  her  blasted  face. 

The  exulting  Briton  asks  his  mournful  guide, 
Where  his  hard  fate  the  lost  Bavaria  tried : 
Where  Stepney  grav’d  the  stone  to  Anna’s  fame, 
He  points  to  Blenheim,  once  a vulgar  name ; 
Here  fled  the  Household,  there  did  Tallard  yield, 
Here  Marlborough  turn’d  the  fortune  of  the  field, 
On  those  steep  banks,  near  Danube’s  ragingflood ; 
The  Gauls  thrice  started  back,  and  trembling 
stood : [long? 

When,  Churchill’s  arm  perceiv’d,  they  stood  not 
But  plung’d  amidst  the  waves,  a desperate  throng, 
Crowds  whelm’d  on  crowds  dash’d  wide  the  wa- 
tery bed, 

And  drove  the  current  to  its  distant  head. 


OF  TICKELL. 


23 


As,  when  by  Raphael’s,  or  by  Kneller’s  bands 
A warlike  courser  on  the  canvas  stands, 

Such  as  on  Landen  bleeding  Ormond  bore, 

Or  set  young  Ammon  on  the  Granic  shore  ; 

If  chance  a generous  steed  the  work  behold, 

He  snorts,  he  neighs,  he  champs  the  foamy  gold  : 
So,  Hocstet  seen,  tumultuous  passions  roll, 

And  hints  of  glory  fire  the  Briton’s  soul, 

In  fancy’d  fights  he  sees  the  troops  engage, 

And  all  the  tempest  of  the  battle  rage. 

Charm  me,  ye  powers,  with  scenes  less  nobly 
bright, 

Far  humbler  thoughts  th’  inglorious  Muse  delight, 
Content  to  see  the  honours  of  the  field 
By  ploughshares  le veil’d,  or  in  flowers  conceal’d. 
O’er  shatter’d  walls  may  creeping  ivy  twine, 

And  grass  luxuriant  clothe  the  harmless  mine. 
Tame  flocks  ascend  the  breach  without  a wound, 
Or  crop  the  bastion,  now  a fruitful  ground ; 

While  shepherds  sleep,  along  the  rampard  laid, 
Or  pipe  beneath  the  formidable  shade. 

Who  was  the  man  ? Oblivion  blast  his  name, 
Torn  out,  and  blotted  from  the  list  of  Fame ! 
Who,  fond  of  lawless  rule,  and  proudly  brave, 
First  sunk  the  filial  subject  to  a slave, 

His  neighbour’s  realms  by  frauds  unkingly  gain’d, 
In  guiltless  blood  the  sacred  ermine  stain’d, 

Laid  schemes  for  death,  to  slaughter  turn’d  his 
heart, 

And  fitted  murder  to  the  rules  of  art. 


24 


THE  POEMS 


Ah  ! curst  Ambition,  to  thy  lures  we  owe 
All  the  great  ills,  that  mortals  bear  below. 

Curst  by  the  hind,  when  to  the  spoil  he  yields 
His  year’s  whole  sweat,  and  vainly  ripen’d  fields ; 
Curst  by  the  maid,  torn  from  her  lover’s  side, 
When  left  a widow,  though  not  yet  a bride ; 

By  mothers  curst,  when  floods  of  tears  they 
shed, 

And  scatter  useless  roses  on  the  dead. 

Oh,  sacred  Bristol ! then,  what  dangers  prove 
The  arts,  thou  smil’st  on  with  paternal  love  ? 
Then,  mixt  with  rubbish  by  the  brutal  foes, 

In  vain  the  marble  breathes,  the  canvas  glows ; 

To  shades  obscure  the  glittering  sword  pursues 
The  gentle  poet,  and  defenceless  Muse. 

A voice  like  thine,  alone,  might  then  assuage 
The  warrior’s  fury,  and  control  his  rage  ; 

To  hear  thee  speak,  might  the  fierce  Vandal  . 
stand, 

And  fling  the  brandish’d  sabre  from  his  hand. 

Far  hence  be  driven  to  Scythia’s  stormy  shore 
The  drum’s  harsh  music,  and  the  cannon’s  roar ; 
Let  grim  Bellona  haunt  the  lawless  plain, 

Where  Tartar  clans  and  grizzly  Cossacks  reign  ; 
Let  the  steel’d  Turk  be  deaf  to  matrons’  cries, 

See  virgins  ravish’d  with  relentless  eyes, 

To  death  gray  heads  and  smiling  infants  doom, 
Nor  spare  the  promise  of  the  pregnant  womb, 
O’er  wasted  kingdoms  spread  his  wide  command, 
The  savage  lord  of  an  unpeopled  land. 


OF  TICKELL. 


25 


Her  guiltless  glory  just  Britannia  draws 
From  pure  religion,  and  impartial  laws, 

To  Europe’s  wounds  a mother’s  aid  she  brings, 
And  holds  in  equal  scales  the  rival  kings : 

Her  generous  sons  in  choicest  gifts  abound, 

Alike  in  arms,  alike  in  arts  renown’d. 

As  when  sweet  Venus  (so  the  fable  sings) 
Awak’d  by  Nereids,  from  the  ocean  springs, 

With  smiles  she  sees  the  threatening  billows 
rise, 

Spreads  smooth  the  surge,  and  clears  the  louring 
skies. 

Light,  o’er  the  deep,  with  fluttering  Cupids 
crown’d, 

The  pearly  couch  and  silver  turtles  bound ; 

Her  tresses  shed  ambrosial  odours  round. 

Amidst  the  world  of  waves  so  stands  serene 
Britannia’s  isle,  the  ocean’s  stately  queen  ; 

In  vain  the  nations  have  conspired  her  fall, 

Her  trench  the  sea,  and  fleets  her  floating  wall : 
Defenceless  barks,  her  powerful  navy  near,  * 
Have  only  waves  and  hurricanes  to  fear. 

What  bold  invader,  or  what  land  opprest, 

Hath  not  her  anger  quell’d,  her  aid  redrest ! 

Say,  where  have  e’er  her  union-crosses  sail’d, 

But  much  her  arms,  her  justice  more  prevail’d  ! 
Her  labours  are,  to  plead  th’  Almighty’s  cause, 
Her  pride  to  teach  th’  untam’d  barbarian  laws  : 
Who  conquers  wins  by  brutal  strength  the  prize ; 
But  ’tis  a godlike  work  to  civilize. 


26 


THE  POEMS 


Have  we  forgot  how  from  great  Eussia’s  throne 
The  long,  whose  power  half  Europe’s  regions 
own, 

Whose  sceptre  waving,  with  one  shout  rush  forth 
In  swarms  the  harness’d  millions  of  the  north, 
Through  realms  of  ice  pursued  his  tedious  way 
To  court  our  friendship,  and  our  fame  survey ! 
Hence  the  rich  prize  of  useful  arts  he  bore, 

And  round  his  empire  spread  the  learned  store : 
(T’  adorn  old  realms  is  more  than  new  to  raise, 
His  country’s  parent  is  a monarch’s  praise.) 

His  bands  now  march  in  just  array  to  war, 

And  Caspian  gulfs  unusual  navies  bear ; 

With  Eunick  lays  Smolensko’s  forests  ring, 

And  wondering  Volga  hears  the  Muses  sing. 

Did  not  the  painted  kings  of  India  greet 
Our  queen,  and  lay  their  sceptres  at  her  feet  ? 
Chiefs  who  full  bowls  of  hostile  blood  had  quaff’d, 
Fam’d  for  the  javelin,  and  envenom’d  shaft, 
Whose  haughty  brows  made  savages  adore, 

Nor  bow’d  to  less  than  stars  or  sun  before. 

Her  pitying  smile  accepts  their  suppliant  claim, 
And  adds  four  monarchs  to  the  Christian  name. 

Blest  use  of  power ! O virtuous  pride  in  kings  ! 
And  like  his  bounty,  whence  dominion  springs  ! 
Which  o’er  new  worlds  makes  Heaven’s  indul- 
gence shine, 

And  ranges  myriads  under  laws  divine  ! [hold, 
Well  bought  with  all  that  those  sweet  regions 
With  groves  of  spices,  and  with  mines  of  gold. 


OF  TICKELL. 


27 


Fearless  our  merchant  now  pursues  liis  gain, 
And  roams  securely  o’er  the  boundless  main. 
Now  o’er  his  head  the  polar  Bear  he  spies, 

And  freezing  spangles  of  the  Lapland  skies  ; 

Now  swells  his  canvas  to  the  sultry  line, 

With  glittering  spoils  where  Indian  grottos  shine, 
Where  fumes  of  incense  glad  the  southern  seas, 
And  wafted  citron  scents  the  balmy  breeze. 

Here  nearer  suns  prepare  the  ripening  gem, 

To  grace  great  Anne’s  imperial  diadem, 

And  here  the  ore,  whose  melted  mass  shall 
yield 

On  faithful  coins  each  memorable  field, 

Which,  mix’d  with  medals  of  immortal  Rome, 
May  clear  disputes,  and  teach  the  times  to  come. 

In  circling  beams  shall  godlike  Anna  glow, 
And  Churchill’s  sword  hang  o’er  the  prostrate  foe ; 
In  comely  wounds  shall  bleeding  worthies  stand, 
Webb’s  firm  platoon,  and  Lumley’s  faithful  band. 
Bold  Mordaunt  in  Iberian  trophies  drest, 

And  Campbell’s  dragon  on  his  dauntless  breast, 
Great  Ormond’s  deeds  on  Vigo’s  spoils  enroll’d, 
And  Guiscard’s  knife  on  Harley’s  Chili  gold. 

And  if  the  Muse,  O Bristol,  might  decree, 

Here  Granville  noted  by  the  lyre  should  be, 

The  lyre  for  Granville,  and  the  cross  for  thee. 

Such  are  the  honours  grateful  Britain  pays  ; 

So  patriots  merit,  and  so  monarchs  praise. 

O’er  distant  times  such  records  shall  prevail, 
When  English  numbers,  antiquated,  fail : 


28 


THE  POEMS 


A trifling  song  the  Muse  can  only  yield, 

And  soothe  her  soldiers  panting  from  the  field. 
To  sweet  retirements  see  them  safe  convey’d, 
And  raise  their  battles  in  the  rural  shade. 

From  fields  of  death  to  Woodstock’s  peaceful 
glooms, 

(The  poet’s  haunt)  Britannia’s  hero  comes — 
Begin  my  Muse,  and  softly  touch  the  string : 
Here  Henry  lov’d  ; and  Chaucer  learn’d  to  sing. 

Hail,  fabled  grotto ! hail,  Elysian  soil ! 

Thou  fairest  spot  of  fair  Britannia’s  isle ! 

Where  kings  of  old,  conceal’d,  forgot  the  throne, 
And  beauty  was  content  to  shine  unknown ; 
Where  Love  and  War  by  turns  pavilions  rear, 
And  Henry’s  bowers  near  Blenheim’s  dome 
appear ; 

The  weary’d  champion  lull  in  soft  alcoves, 

The  noblest  boast  of  thy  romantic  groves. 

Oft,  if  the  Muse  presage,  shall  be  seen 
By  Rosamonda  fleeting  o’er  the  green, 

In  dreams  be  hail’d  by  heroes’  mighty  shades, 
And  hear  old  Chaucer  warble  through  the  glades, 
O’er  the  fam’d  echoing  vaults  his  name  shall  bound, 
And  hill  to  hill  reflect  the  favourite  sound. 

Here,  here  at  least  thy  love  for  arms  give  o’er, 
Nor,  one  world  conquer’d,  fondly  wish  for  more. 
Vice  of  great  souls  alone  ! O thirst  of  fame  ! 

The  Muse  admires  it,  while  she  strives  to  blame. 
Thy  toils  be  now  to  chase  the  bounding  deer, 

Or  view  the  coursers  stretch  in  wild  career. 


OF  TICKELL. 


29 


This  lovely  scene  shall  soothe  thy  soul  to  rest, 
And  wear  each  dreadful  image  from  thy  breast. 
With  pleasure,  by  thy  conquests  shalt  thou  see 
Thy  queen  triumphant,  and  all  Europe  free. 

No  cares  henceforth  shall  thy  repose  destroy, 

But  what  thou  giv’st  the  world,  thyself  enjoy. 

Sweet  Solitude  ! when  life’s  gay  hours  are  past 
Howe’er  we  range,  in  thee  we  fix  at  last : 

Tost  through  tempestuous  seas  (the  voyage  o’er) 
Pale  we  look  back,  and  bless  thy  friendly  shore. 
Our  own  strict  judges,  our  past  life  we  scan, 

And  ask  if  glory  hath  enlarg’d  the  span  : 

If  bright  the  prospect,  we  the  grave  defy, 

Trust  future  ages,  and  contented  die.  [come, 
When  strangers  from  far  distant  climes  shall 
To  view  the  pomp  of  this  triumphant  dome, 
Where,  rear’d  aloft,  dissembled  trophies  stand, 
And  breathing  labours  of  the  sculptor’s  hand, 
Where  Kneller’s  art  shall  paint  the  flying  Gaul, 
And  Bourbon’s  woes  shall  fill  the  story’d  wall ; 
Heirs  of  thy  blood  shall  o’er  their  bounteous  board 
Fix  Europe’s  guard,  thy  monumental  sword, 
Banners  that  oft  have  wav’d  on  conquer’d  walls, 
And  trumps,  that  drown’d  the  groans  of  gasping 
Gauls. 

Fair  dames  shall  oft,  with  curious  eye,  explore 
The  costly  robes  that  slaughter’d  generals  wore, 
Rich  trappings  from  the  Danube’s  whirlpools 
brought,  % 

(Hesperian  nuns  the  gorgeous  broidery  wrought,) 


30 


THE  POEMS 


Belts  stiff  with  gold,  the  Boian  horseman’s  pride, 
And  Gaul’s  fair  flowers,  in  human  crimson  dy’d. 
Of  Churchill’s  race  perhaps  some  lovely  boy 
Shall  mark  the  burnish’d  steel  that  hangs  on  high, 
Shall  gaze  transported  on  its  glittering  charms, 
And  reach  it  struggling  with  unequal  arms, 

By  signs  the  drum’s  tumultuous  sound  request, 
Then  seek,  in  starts,  the  hushing  mother’s  breast. 

So  in  the  painter’s  animated  frame, 

Where  Mars  embraces  the  soft  Paphian  dame, 
The  little  Loves  in  sport  his  fauchion  wield, 

Or  join  their  strength  to  heave  his  ponderous 
shield : 

One  strokes  the  plume  in  Tytion’s  gore  embrued, 
And  one  the  spear,  that  reeks  with  Typhon’s 
blood: 

Another’s  infant  brows  the  helm  sustain, 
lie  nods  his  crest,  and  frights  the  shrieking 
train. 

Thus,  the  rude  tempest  of  the  field  o’erblown, 
Shall  whiter  rounds  of  smiling  years  roll  on, 

Our  victors,  blest  in  peace,  forget  their  wars, 
Enjoy  past  dangers,  and  absolve  the  stars. 

But,  oh ! what  sorrows  shall  bedew  your  urns, 

Ye  honour’d  shades,  whom  widow’d  Albion 
mourns ! 

If  your  thin  forms  yet  discontented  moan, 

And  haunt  the  mangled  mansions,  once  your  own  ; 
Behold  what  flowers  the  pious  Muses  strow, 

And  tears,  which  in  the  midst  of  triumph  flow ; 


OF  TICKELL. 


31 


Cypress  and  bays  your  envy’d  brows  surround, 
Your  names  the  tender  matron’s  heart  shall  wound, 
And  the  soft  maid  grow  pensive  at  the  sound. 
Accept,  great  Anne,  the  tears  their  memory 
draws, 

Who  nobly  perish’d  in  their  sovereign’s  cause : 
For  thou  in  pity  bid’st  the  war  give  o’er, 
Mourn’st  thy  slain  heroes,  nor  wilt  venture  more. 
Vast  price  of  blood  on  each  victorious  day  ! 

(But  Europe’s  freedom  doth  that  price  repay.) 
Lamented  triumphs  ! when  one  breath  must  tell 
That  Marlborough  conquer’d,  and  that  Dormer  fell. 
Great  queen ! whose  name  strikes  haughty  mo- 
narchs  pale, 

On  whose  just  sceptre  hangs  Europa’s  scale, 
Whose  arm  like  Mercy  wounds,  decides  like 
Fate, 

On  whose  decree  the  nations  anxious  wait : 

From  Albion’s  cliffs  thy  wide-extended  hand 
Shall  o’er  the  main  to  far  Peru  command ; 

So  vast  a tract  whose  wide  domain  shall  run, 

Its  circling  skies  shall  see  no  setting  sun. 

Thee,  thee  an  hundred  languages  shall  claim, 

And  savage  Indians  swear  by  Anna’s  name  ; 

The  line  and  poles  shall  own  thy  rightful  sway, 
And  thy  commands  the  sever’d  globe  obey. 

Round  the  vast  ball  thy  new  dominions  chain 
The  watery  kingdoms,  and  control  the  main  ; 
Magellan’s  straits  to  Gibraltar  they  join, 

Across  the  seas  a formidable  line  ; 


32 


THE  POEMS 


The  sight  of  adverse  Gaul  we  fear  no  more, 

But  pleas’d  see  Dunkirk,  now  a guiltless  shore , 
In  vain  great  Neptune  tore  the  narrow  ground, 
And  meant  his  waters  for  Britannia’s  bound ; 

Her  giant  genius  takes  a mighty  stride, 

And  sets  his  foot  beyond  the  encroaching  tide  ; 
On  either  bank  the  land  its  master  knows, 

And  in  the  midst  the  subject  ocean  flows. 

So  near  proud  Bhodes,  across  the  raging  flood, 
Stupendous  form  ! the  vast  Colossus  stood, 
(While  at  one  foot  their  thronging  galleys  ride, 

A whole  hour’s  sail  scarce  reach  the  further  side,) 
Betwixt  his  brazen  thighs,  in  loose  array, 

Ten  thousand  streamers  on  the  billows  play. 

By  Harley’s  counsels,  Dunkirk,  now  restor’d 
To  Britain’s  empire,  owns  her  ancient  lord. 

In  him  transfus’d  his  godlike  father  reigns, 

Rick  in  the  blood  which  swell’d  that  patriot’s  veins, 
Who,  boldly  faithful,  met  his  sovereign’s  frown, 
And  scorn’d  for  gold  to  yield  th’  important  town. 
His  son  was  born  the  ravish’d  prey  to  claim, 

And  France  still  trembles  at  an  Harley’s  name. 

A fort  so  dreadful  to  our  English  shore, 

Our  fleets  scarce  fear’d  the  sands  or  tempests 
more, 

Whose  vast  expenses  to  such  sums  amount, 

That  the  tax’d  Gaul  scarce  furnish’d  out  th’  account, 
Whose  walls  such  bulwarks,  such  vast  towers 
restrain, 

Its  weakest  ramparts  are  the  rocks  and  main, 


OF  TICKELL. 


33 


His  boast  great  Louis  yields,  and  cheaply  buys 
Thy  friendship,  Anna,  with  the  mighty  prize. 
Holland  repining,  and  in  grief  cast  down, 

Sees  the  new  glories  of  the  British  crown : 

Ah  ! may  they  ne’er  provoke  thee  to  the  fight, 
Nor  foes,  more  dreadful  than  the  Gaul,  invite. 
Soon  may  they  hold  the  olive,  soon  assuage 
Their  secret  murmurs,  nor  call  forth  thy  rage 
To  rend  their  banks,  and  pour,  at  one  command, 
Thy  realm,  the  sea,  o’er  their  precarious  land. 

Henceforth  be  thine,  vicegerent  of  the  skies, 
Scorn’d  worth  to  raise,  and  vice  in  robes  chastise 
To  dry  the  orphan’s  tears,  and  from  the  bar 
Chase  the  brib’d  judge,  and  hush  the  wordy 
war, 

Deny  the  curst  blasphemer’s  tongue  to  rage, 

And  turn  God’s  fury  from  an  impious  age. 

Blest  change ! the  soldier’s  late  destroying  hand 
Shall  rear  new  temples  in  his  native  land ; 
Mistaken  zealots  shall  with  fear  behold, 

And  beg  admittance  in  our  sacred  fold : 

On  her  own  works  the  pious  queen  shall  smile, 
And  turn  her  cares  upon  her  favourite  isle. 

So  the  keen  bolt  a warrior  angel  aims, 

Array’d  in  clouds,  and  wrapt  in  mantling  flames ; 
He  bears  a tempest  on  his  sounding  wings, 

And  his  red  arm  the  forky  vengeance  flings ; 

At  length,  Heaven’s  wrath  appeas’d,  he  quits  the 
war, 

To  roll  his  orb,  and  guide  his  destin’d  star, 

3 


34 


THE  POEMS 


To  slied  kind  fate,  and  lucky  hours  bestow, 

And  smile  propitious  on  the  world  below. 

Around  thy  throne  shall  faithful  nobles  wait, 
These  guard  the  church,  and  those  direct  the  state. 
To  Bristol,  graceful  in. maternal  tears, 

The  church  her  towery  forehead  gently  rears ; 

She  begs  her  pious  son  t’  assert  her  cause, 

Defend  her  rights,  and  reenforce  her  laws, 

With  holy  zeal  the  sacred  work  begin, 

To  bend  the  stubborn,  and  the  meek  to  win. 

Our  Oxford’s  earl  in  careful  thought  shall  stand, 
To  raise  his  queen,  and  save  a sinking  land. 

The  wealthiest  glebe  to  ravenous  Spaniards  known 
He  marks,  and  makes  the  golden  world  our  own, 
Content  with  hands  unsoil’d  to  guard  the  prize, 
And  keep  the  store  with  undesiring  eyes. 

So  round  the  tree,  that  bore  Hesperian  gold, 
The  sacred  watch  lay  curl’d  in  many  a fold, 

His  eyes  uprearing  to  th’  untasted  prey, 

The  sleepless  guardian  wasted  life  away. 

Beneath  the  peaceful  olives,  rais’d  by  you, 

Her  ancient  pride,  shall  every  art  renew, 

(The  arts  with  you  fam’d  Harcourt  shall  defend, 
And  courtly  Bolingbroke,  the  Muse’s  friend.) 
With  piercing  eye  some  search  where  Nature 
plays, 

And  trace  the  wanton  through  her  darksome  maze, 
Whence  health  from  herbs ; from  seeds  how  groves 
begun, 

How  vital  streams  in  circling  eddies  run. 


OF  TICKELL. 


35 


Some  teach  why  round  the  Sun  the  spheres 
advance, 

In  the  fix’d  measures  of  their  mystic  dance, 

How  tides,  when  heav’d  by  pressing  moons,  o’er- 
flow, 

And  sun-born  Iris  paints  her  showery  bow. 

In  happy  chains  our  daring  language  bound, 
Shall  sport  no  more  in  arbitrary  sound, 

But  buskin’d  bards  henceforth  shall  wisely  rage, 
And  Grecian  plans  reform  Britannia’s  stage : 

Till  Congreve  bids  her  smile,  Augusta  stands 
And  longs  to  weep  when  flowing  Rowe  commands. 
Britain’s  Spectators  shall  their  strength  combine 
To  mend  our  morals  and  our  taste  refine, 

Fight  virtue’s  cause,  stand  up  in  wit’s  defence, 
Win  us  from  vice,  and  laugh  us  into  sense. 

Nor,  Prior,  hast  thou  hush’d  the  trump  in  vain, 
Thy  lyre  shall  now  revive  her  mirthful  strain, 
New  tales  shall  now  be  told ; if  right  I see, 

The  soul  of  Chaucer  is  restor’d  in  thee. 

Garth,  in  majestic  numbers,  to  the  stars 
Shall  raise  mock  heroes,  and  fantastic  wars  ; , 
Like  the  young  spreading  laurel,  Pope,  thy 
name 

Shoots  up  with  strength,  and  rises  into  fame  ; 
With  Philips  shall  the  peaceful  valleys  ring, 

And  Britain  hear  a second  Spenser  sing. 

That  much-lov’d  youth,  whom  Utrecht’s  walls 
confine, 

To  Bristol’s  praises  shall  his  Strafford’s  join : 


36 


THE  POEMS 


He  too,  from  whom  attentive  Oxford  draws 
Rules  for  just  thinking,  and  poetic  laws, 

To  growing  bards  his  learned  aid  shall  lend, 

The  strictest  critic  and  the  kindest  friend. 

Ev’n  mine,  a bashful  Muse,  whose  rude  essays 
Scarce  hope  for  pardon,  not  aspire  to  praise, 
Cherish’d  by  you,  in  time  may  grow  to  fame, 

And  mine  survive  with  Bristol’s  glorious  name. 
Fir’d  with  the  views  this  glittering  scene 
displays, 

And  smit  with  passion  for  my  country’s  praise, 
My  artless  reed  attempts  this  lofty  theme, 

Where  sacred  Isis  rolls  her  ancient  stream ; 

In  cloister’d  domes,  the  great  Philippa’s  pride, 
Where  Learning  blooms,  while  Fame  and  Worth 
preside, 

Where  the  fifth  Henry  arts  and  arms  was  taught. 
And  Edward  form’d  his  Cressy,  yet  unfought, 
Where  laurell’d  bards  have  struck  the  warbling 
strings, 

The  seat  of  sages,  and  the  nurse  of  kings. 

Here  thy  commands,  O Lancaster,  inflame 
My  eager  breast  to  raise  the  British  name, 

Urge  on  my  soul,  with  no  ignoble  pride, 

To  woo  the  Muse,  whom  Addison  enjoy’d, 

See  that  bold  swan  to  Heaven  sublimely  soar, 
Pursue  at  distance,  and  his  steps  adore. 


OF  TICKELL. 


37 


TO  MR.  ADDISON. 

ON  HIS  OPERA  OF  ROSAMOND. 

Ne  fort&  pudori 

Sit  tibi  Musa  lyrse  solers,  et  cantor  Apollo. 

The  Opera  first  Italian  masters  taught, 

Enrich’d  with  songs,  but  innocent  of  thought ; 
Britannia’s  learned  theatre  disdains 
Melodious  trifles,  and  enervate  strains ; 

And  blushes  on  her  injur’d  stage  to  see 
Nonsense  well-tun’d,  and  sweet  stupidity. 

No  charms  are  wanting  to  thy  artful  song, 

Soft  as  Corelli,  and  as  Virgil  strong. 

From  words  so  sweet  new  grace  the  notes  receive, 
And  Music  borrows  helps,  she  us’d  to  give. 

Thy  style  hath  match’d  what  ancient  Romans 
knew, 

Thy  flowing  numbers  far  excel  the  new. 

Their  cadence  in  such  easy  sound  convey’d, . 

The  height  of  thought  may  seem  superfluous  aid  ; 
Yet  in  such  charms  the  noble  thoughts  abound, 
That  needless  seem  the  sweets  of  easy  sound. 

Landscapes  how  gay  the  bowery  grotto  yields, 
Which  thought  creates,  and  lavish  fancy  builds  ! 


38 


THE  POEMS 


What  art  can  trace  the  visionary  scenes, 

The  flowery  groves,  and  everlasting  greens, 

The  babbling  sounds  that  mimic  echo  plays, 

The  fairy  shade,  and  its  eternal  maze  ? 

Nature  and  Art  in  all  their  charms  combin’d, 
And  all  Elysium  to  one  view  confin’d  ! 

No  further  could  imagination  roam, 

Till  Yanbrugh  fram’d,  and  Marlborough  rais’d  the 
dome. 

Ten  thousand  pangs  my  anxious  bosom  tear, 
When  drown’d  in  tears  I see  th’  imploring  fair ; 
When  bards  less  soft  the  moving  words  supply, 

A seeming  justice  dooms  the  nymph  to  die ; 

But  here  she  begs,  nor  can  she  beg  in  vain 
(In  dirges  thus  expiring  swans  complain ;) 

Each  verse  so  swells  expressive  of  her  woes, 

And  every  tear  in  lines  so  mournful  flows  ; 

We,  spite  of  fame,  her  fate  revers’d  believe, 
O’erlook-her  crimes,  and  think  she  ought  to  live. 

Let  joy  salute  fair  Rosamonda’s  shade, 

And  wreaths  of  myrtle  crown  the  lovely  maid, 
While  now  perhaps  with  Dido’s  ghost  she  roves, 
And  hears  and  tells  the  story  of  their  loves, 

Alike  they  mourn,  alike  they  bless  their  fate, 
Since  Love,  which  made  them  wretched,  makes 
them  great. 

Nor  longer  that  relentless  doom  bemoan, 

Which  gain’d  a Virgil,  and  an  Addison. 

Accept,  great  monarch  of  the  British  lays, 

The  tribute  song  an  humble  subject  pays. 


OF  TICKELL. 


39 


£o  tries  the  artless  lark  her  early  flight, 

And  soars,  to  hail  the  god  of  verse  and  light. 
Unrivaird,  as  unmatch’d,  be  still  thy  fame, 

And  thy  own  laurels  shade  thy  envy’d  name : 
Thy  name,  the  boast  of  all  the  tuneful  quire, 
Shall  tremble  on  the  strings  of  every  lyre  ; 
While  the  charm’d  reader  with  thy  thought 
complies, 

Feels  corresponding  joys  or  sorrows  rise, 

And  views  thy  Rosamond  with  Henry’s  eyes. 


TO  THE  SAME; 

ON  HIS  TRAGEDY  OF  CATO. 

Too  long  hath  love  engross’d  Britannia’s  stage, 
And  sunk  to  softness  all  our  tragic  rage : 

By  that  alone  did  empires  fall  or  rise, 

And  fate  depended  on  a fair-one’s  eyes : 

The  sweet  infection,  mixt  with  dangerous  art, 
Debas’d  our  manhood,  while  it  sooth’d  the  heart, 
You  scorn  to  raise  a grief  thyself  must  blame, 
Nor  from  our  weakness  steal  a vulgar  fame : 

A patriot’s  fall  may  justly  melt  the  mind, 

And  tears  flow  nobly,  shed  for  all  mankind. 

How  do  our  Souls  with  generous  pleasure  glow ! 
Our  hearts  exulting,  while  our  eyes  o’erflow, 


40 


THE  POEMS 


When  thy  firm  hero  stands  beneath  the  weight 
Of  all  his  sufferings  venerably  great ; 

Rome’s  poor  remains  still  sheltering  by  his  side, 
With  conscious  virtue,  and  becoming  pride ! 

The  aged  oak  thus  rears  his  head  in  air, 

His  sap  exhausted,  and  his  branches  bare ; 

’Midst  storms  and  earthquakes,  he  maintains  his 
state, 

Fixt  deep  in  earth,  and  fasten’d  by  his  weight : 
His  naked  boughs  still  lend  the  shepherds  aid, 
And  his  old  trunk  projects  an  awful  shade. 

Amidst  the  joys  triumphant  peace  bestows, 

Our  patriots  sadden  at  his  glorious  woes ; 

Awhile  they  let  the  world’s  great  business  wait, 
Anxious  for  Rome,  and  sigh  for  Cato’s  fate. 

Here  taught  how  ancient  heroes  rose  to  fame, 
Our  Britons  crowd,  and  catch  the  Roman  flame, 
Where  states  and  senates  well  might  lend  an  ear, 
And  kings  and  priests  without  a blush  appear.  > 
France  boasts  no  more,  but,  fearful  to  engage, 
Now  first  pays  homage  to  her  rival’s  stage, 
Hastes  to  learn  thee,  and  learning  shall  submit 
Alike  to  British  arms,  and  British  wit : 

No  more  she’ll  wonder,  forc’d  to  do  us  right, 

Who  think  like  Romans,  could  like  Romans 
fight. 

Thy  Oxford  smiles  this  glorious  work  to  see, 
And  fondly  triumphs  in  a son  like  thee. 

The  senates,  consuls,  and  the  gods  of  Rome, 

Like  old  acquaintance  at  their  native  home, 


OF  TICKELL. 


41 


In  thee  we  find : each  deed,  each  word  exprest, 
And  every  thought  that  swell’d  a Roman  breast, 
We  trace  each  hint  that  could  thy  soul  inspire 
With  Virgil’s  judgment,  and  with  Lucan’s  fire  ; 
We  know  thy  worth,  and,  give  us  leave  to  boast, 
We  most  admire,  because  we  know  thee  most. 


THE  ROYAL  PROGRESS. 

When  Brunswick  first  appear’d,  each  honest 
heart, 

Intent  on  verse,  disdain’d  the  rules  of  art ; 

For  him  the  songsters,  in  unmeasur’d  odes, 
Debas’d  Alcides,  and  dethron’d  the  gods, 

In  golden  chains  the  kings  of  India  led, 

Or  rent  the  turban  froimthe  sultan’s  head. 

One,  in  old  fables,  and  the  pagan  strain, 

With  nymphs  and  tritons,  wafts  him  o’er  the  main  ; 
Another  draws  fierce  Lucifer  in  arms 
And  fills  th’  infernal  region  with  alarms  ; 

A third  awakes  some  druid,  to  foretell 
Each  future  triumph,  from  his  dreary  cell. 
Exploded  fancies ! that  in  vain  deceive, 

While  the  mind  nauseates  what  she  can’t  believe. 
My  Muse  th’  expected  hero  shall  pursue 
From  clime  to  clime,  and  keep  him  still  in  view  ; 


42 


THE  POEMS 


His  shining  march  describe  in  faithful  lays 
Content  to  paint  him,  nor  presume  to  praise  ; 
Their  charms,  if  charms  they  have,  the  truth 
supplies, 

And  from  the  theme  unlabour’d  beauties  rise. 

By  longing  nations  for  the  throne  design’d, 
And  call’d  to  guard  the  rights  of  human-kind ; 
With  secret  grief  his  god-like  soul  repines, 

And  Britain’s  crown  with  joyless  lustre  shines, 
While  prayers  and  tears  his  destin’d  progress  stay, 
And  crowds  of  mourners  choke  their  sovereign’s 
way. 

Not  so  he  march’d,  when  hostile  squadrons  stood 
In  scenes  of  death,  and  fir’d  his  generous  blood ; 
When  his  hot  courser  paw’d  tli’  Hungarian  plain, 
And  adverse  legions  stood  the  shock  in  vain. 

His  frontiers  past,  the  Belgian  bounds  he  views, 
And  cross  the  level  fields  his  march  pursues. 
Here,  pleas’d  the  land  of  freedom  to  survey, 

He  greatly  scorns  the  thirst  of  boundless  sway. 
O’er  the  thin  soil,  with  silent  joy,  he  spies 
Transplanted  woods,  and  borrow’d  verdure  rise  ; 
Where  every  meadow,  won  with  toil  and  blood 
From  haughty  tyrants  and  the  raging  flood, 

With  fruit  and  flowers  the  careful  hind  supplies, 
And  clothes  the  marshes  in  a rich  disguise. 

Such  wealth  for  frugal  hands  doth  Heaven  decree, 
And  such  thy  gifts,  celestial  Liberty I 

Through  stately  towns,  and  many  a fertile  plain, 
The  pomp  advances  to  the  neighbouring  main, 


OF  TICKELL. 


43 


Whole  nations  crowd  around  with  joyful  cries, 
And  view  the  hero  with  insatiate  eyes. 

In  Haga’s  towers  he  waits  till  eastern  gales 
Propitious  rise  to  swell  the  British  sails. 

Hither  the  fame  of  England’s  monarch  brings 
The  vows  and  friendships  of  the  neighbouring 
kings ; 

Mature  in  wisdom,  his  extensive  mind 
Takes  in  the  blended  interests  of  mankind, 

The  world’s  great  patriot.  Calm  thy  anxious 
breast, 

Secure  in  him,  O Europe,  take  thy  rest ; 
Henceforth  thy  kingdoms  shall  remain  confin’d 
By  rocks  or  streams,  the  mounds  which  Heaven 
design’d ; 

The  Alps  their  new-made  monarch  shall  restrain, 
Nor  shall  thy  hills,  Pirene,  rise  in  vain.  . 

But  see  ! to  Britain’s  isle  the  squadrons  stand, 
And  leave  the  sinking  towers,  and  lessening  land. 
The  royal  bark  bounds  o’er  the  floating  plain, 
Breaks  through  the  billows,  and  divides  the  main. 
O’er  the  vast  deep,  great  monarch,  dart  thine 
eyes, 

A watery  prospect  bounded  by  the  skies : 

Ten  thousand  vessels,  from  ten  thousand  shores, 
Bring  gums  and  gold,  and  either  India’s  stores : 
Behold  the  tributes  hastening  to  thy  throne, 

And  see  the  wide  horizon  all  thy  own. 

Still  is  it  thine ; though  now  the  cheerful  crew 
Hail  Albion’s  cliffs ; just  whitening  to  the  view. 


44 


THE  POEMS 


Before  the  wind  with  swelling  sails  they  ride, 

Till  Thames  receives  them  in  his  opening  tide. 
The  monarch  hears  the  thundering  peals  around, 
From  trembling  woods  and  echoing  hills  rebound, 
Nor  misses  yet,  amid  the  deafening  train, 

The  roarings  of  the  hoarse-resounding  main. 

As  in  the  flood  he  sails,  from  either  side 
He  views  his  kingdom  in  his  rural  pride ; 

A various  scene  the  wide-spread  landscape  yields, 
O’er  rich  enclosures  and  luxuriant  fields ; 

A lowing  herd  each  fertile  pasture  fills, 

And  distant  flocks  stray  o’er  a thousand  hills. 
Fair  Greenwich,  hid  in  woods,  with  new  delight, 
Shade  above  shade,  now  rises  to  the  sight ; 

His  woods  ordain’d  to  visit  every  shore, 

And  guard  the  island  which  they  grac’d  before. 

The  sun  now  rolling  down  the  western  way, 

A blaze  of  fires  renews  the  fading  day  ; 
Unnumber’d  barks  the  regal  barge  infold, 
Brightening  the  twilight  with  its  beamy  gold ; 
Less  thick  the  finny  shoals,  a countless  fry, 
Before  the  whale  or  kingly  dolphin  fly. 

In  one  vast  shout  he  seeks  the  crowded  strand, 
And  in  a peal  of  thunder  gains  the  land. 

Welcome,  great  stranger,  to  our  longing  eyes, 
Oh ! king  desir’d,  adopted  Albion  cries. 

For  thee  the  East  breath’d  out  a prosperous  breeze, 
Bright  were  the  suns,  and  gently  swell’d  the  seas. 
Thy  presence  did  each  doubtful  heart  compose, 
And  factions  wonder’d  that  they  once  were  foes. 


OF  TICKELL. 


45 


That  joyful  day  they  lost  each  hostile  name, 

The  same  their  aspect,  and  their  voice  the  same. 

So  two  fair  twins,  whose  features  were  design’d 
At  one  soft  moment  in  the  mother’s  mind, 

Show  each  the  other  with  reflected  grace, 

And  the  same  beauties  bloom  in  either  face ; 

The  puzzled  strangers  which  is  which  inquire ; 
Delusion  grateful  to  the  smiling  sire. 

From  that  fair  hill,1  where  hoary  sages  boast 
To  name  the  stars,  and  count  the  heavenly  host, 
By  the  next  dawn  doth  great  Augusta  rise, 

Proud  town  ! the  noblest  scene  beneath  the  skies. 
O’er  Thames  her  thousand  spires  their  lustre  shed, 
And  a vast  navy  hides  his  ample  bed, 

A floating  forest.  From  the  distant  strand 
A line  of  golden  cars  strikes  o’er  the  land : 
Britannia’s  peers  in  pomp  and  rich  array, 

Before  their  king  triumphant,  lead  the  way. 

Far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  gaudy  train, 

A bright  procession,  shines  along  the  plain. 

So,  haply  through  the  heaven’s  wide  pathless 
ways 

A comet  draws  a long  extended  blaze ; 

From  east  to  west  burns  through  the  ethereal 
frame, 

And  half  heaven’s  convex  glitters  with  the  flame. 

Now  to  the  regal  towers  securely  brought, 

He  plans  Britannia’s  glories  in  his  thought ; 


1 Mr.  Flamstead’s  house. 


46 


THE  POEMS 


Resumes  the  delegated  power  he  gave, 

Rewards  the  faithful,  and  restores  the  brave. 
Whom  shall  the  Muse  from  out  the  shining  throng, 
Select,  to  heighten  and  adorn  her  song  ? 

Thee,  Halifax.  To  thy  capacious  mind, 

O man  approv’d,  is  Britain’s  wealth  consign’d. 
Her  coin,  while  Nassau  fought,  debas’d  and  rude, 
By  thee  in  beauty  and  in  truth  renew’d, 

An  arduous  work ! again  thy  charge  we  see, 

And  thy  own  care  once  more  returns  to  thee. 

0 ! form’d  in  every  scene  to  awe  and  please, 

Mix  wit  with  pomp,  and  dignity  with  ease : 
Though  call’d  to  shine  aloft,  thou  wilt  not  scorn 
To  smile  on  arts  thyself  did  once  adorn  : 

For  this  thy  name  succeeding  time  shall  praise, 
And  envy  less  thy  garter,  than  thy  bays. 

The  Muse,  if  fir’d  with  thy  enlivening  beams, 
Perhaps  shall  aim  at  more  exalted  themes, 
Record  our  monarch  in  a nobler  strain, 

And  sing  the  opening  wonders  of  his  reign  ; 
Bright  Carolina’s  heavenly  beauties  trace, 

Her  valiant  consort,  and  his  blooming  race. 

A train  of  kings  their  fruitful  love  supplies, 

A glorious  scene  to  Albion’s  ravish’d  eyes ; 

Who  sees  by  Brunswick’s  hand  her  sceptre  sway’d, 
And  through  his  line  from  age  to  age  convey’d. 


OF  TICKELL. 


47 


AN  IMITATION  OF  THE  PROPHECY  OF 
NEREUS. 

FROM  HORACE.  BOOK  II.  ODE  XV. 

Dicam  insigne,  rccens,  adhuc 
Indictum  ore  alio:  non  secus  in  jugis 
Ex  somnis  stupet  Euias 
Hebrum  prospiciens,  et  nive  candidam 
Thracen,  ac  pede  barbaro 
Lustratam  Rbodopen.  Hor. 

As  Mar  his  round  one  morning  took, 

(Whom  some  call  earl,  and  some  call  duke,) 
And  his  new  brethren  of  the  blade, 

Shivering  with  fear  and  frost,  survey’d, 

On  Perth’s  bleak  hills  he  chanc’d  to  spy 
An  aged  wizard  six  foot  high, 

With  bristled  hair  and  visage  blighted, 
Wall-ey’d,  bare-haunch’d,  and  second-sighted. 

The  grizzly  sage,  in  thought  profound 
Beheld  the  chief  with  back  so  round, 

Then  roll’d  his  eye-balls  to  and  fro 
O’er  his  paternal  hills  of  snow, 

And  into  these  tremendous  speeches 
Broke  forth  the  prophet  without  breeches. 


43 


THE  POEMS 


“ Into  what  ills  betray’d,  by  thee, 

This  ancient  kingdom  do  I see  ! 

Her  realms  unpeopled  and  forlorn  ! 

Wae’s  me ! that  ever  thou  wert  born  ! 

Proud  English  loons  (our  clans  o’ercome) 

On  Scottish  pads  shall  amble  home ; 

I see  them  drest  in  bonnets  blue ; 

(The  spoils  of  thy  rebellious  crew ;) 

I see  the  target  cast  away, 

And  chequer’d  plaid  become  their  prey, 

The  chequer’d  plaid  to  make  a gown 
F or  many  a lass  in  London  town. 

“ In  vain  thy  hungry  mountaineers 
Come  forth  in  all  thy  warlike  geers, 

The  shield,  the  pistol,  dirk,  and  dagger, 

In  which  they  daily  wont  to  swagger, 

And  oft  have  sally ’d  out  to  pillage 
The  hen-roosts  of  some  peaceful  village, 

Or,  while  their  neighbours  were  asleep, 

Have  carry’d  off  a low-land  sheep. 

“ What  boots  thy  high-born  host  of  beggars, 
Mac-leans,  Mac-kenzies,  and  Mac-gregors, 
With  popish  cutthroats,  perjur’d  ruffians, 

And  Foster’s  troop  of  ragamuffins  ? 

“ In  vain  thy  lads  around  thee  bandy, 
Inflam’d  with  bagpipe  and  with  brandy, 

Doth  not  bold  Sutherland  the  trustv, 

With  heart  so  true,  and  voice  so  rusty, 

(A  loyal  soul,)  thy  troops  affright, 

While  hoarsely  he  demands  the  fight  ? 


OF  TICKELL. 


49 


Dost  thou  not  generous  Hay  dread, 

The  bravest  hand,  the  wisest  head  ? 
Undaunted  dost  thou  hear  th’  alarms 
Of  hoary  Athol  sheath’d  in  arms  ? 

“ Douglass,  who  draws  his  lineage  down 
From  Thanes  and  peers  of  high  renown, 
Fiery,  and  young,  and  uncontroll’d, 

With  knights,  and  squires,  and  barons  bold, 
(His  noble  household-band)  advances, 

And  on  the  milk-white  courser  prances. 
Thee  Forfar  to  the  combat  dares, 

Grown  swarthy  in  Iberian  wars ; 

And  Monroe,  kindled  into  rage, 

Sourly  defies  thee  to  engage ; 

He’ll  rout  thy  foot,  though  ne’er  so  many, 
And  horse  to  boot — if  thou  hadst  any. 

“ But  see  Argyll,  with  watchful  eyes, 
Lodg’d  in  his  deep  entrenchments  lies, 
Couch’d  like  a lion  in  thy  way, 

He  waits  to  spring  upon  his  prey ; 

While,  like  a herd  of  timorous  deer, 

Thy  army  shakes  and  pants  with  fear, 

Led  by  their  doughty  general’s  skill, 

From  frith  to  frith,  from  hill  to  hill. 

“ Is  thus  thy  haughty  promise  paid 
That  to  the  Chevalier  was  made, 

When  thou  didst  oaths  and  duty  barter, 
For  dukedom,  generalship,  and  garter? 
Three  moons  thy  Jemmy  shall  command, 
With  Highland  sceptre  in  his  hand, 

4 


50 


THE  POEMS 


Too  good  for  his  pretended  birth, 

. . Then  down  shall  fall  the  king  of  Perth. 

“ ’Tis  so  decreed : for  George  shall  reign, 
And  traitors  be  forsworn  in  vain. 

Heaven  shall  for  ever  on  him  smile, 

And  bless  him  still  with  an  Argyll. 

While  thou,  pursued  by  vengeful  foes, 
Condemn’d  to  barren  rocks  and  snows, 

And  hinder’d  passing  Inverlocky, 

Shall  burn  the  clan,  and  curse  poor  Jocky.” 


AN  EPISTLE 

FROM  A LADY  IN  ENGLAND  TO  A GENTLEMAN  AT 
AVIGNON. 

To  thee,  dear  rover,  and  thy  vanquish’d  friends, 
The  health,  she  wants,  thy  gentle  Chloe  sends* 
Though  much  you  suffer,  think  I suffer  more, 
Worse  than  an  exile  on  my  native  shore. 
Companions  in  your  master’s  flight  you  roam, 
Unenvy’d  by  your  haughty  foes  at  home  ; 

For  ever  near  the  royal  outlaw’s  side 
You  share  his  fortunes,  and  his  hopes  divide, 

On  glorious  schemes,  and  thoughts  of  empire  dwell, 
And  with  imaginary  titles  swell. 


OF  TICKELL. 


51 


Say,  for  thou  know’st  I own  his  sacred  line, 
The  passive  doctrine,  and  the  right  divine, 

Say,  what  new  succours  does  the  chief  prepare  ? 
The  strength  of  armies  ? or  the  force  of  prayer  ? 
Does  he  from  Heaven  or  Earth  his  hopes  derive  ? 
From  saints  departed,  or  from  priests  alive  ? 

Nor  saints  nor  priests  can  Brunswick’s  troops 
withstand, 

And  beads  drop  useless  through  the  zealot’s  hand ; 
Heaven  to  ouf  vows  may  future  kingdoms  owe, 
But  skill  and  courage  win  the  crowns  below. 

Ere  to  thy  cause,  and  thee,  my  heart  inclin’d, 
Or  love  to  party  had  seduc’d  my  mind, 

In  female  joys  I took  a dull  delight, 

Slept  all  the  morn,  and  punted  half  the  night : 
But  now,  with  fears  and  public  cares  possest, 

The  church,  the  church,  for  ever  breaks  my 
rest. 

The  postboy  on  my  pillow  I explore, 

And  sift  the  news  of  every  foreign  shore, 
Studious  to  find  new  friends,  and  new  allies  ; 
What  armies  march  from  Sweden  in  disguise ; 
How  Spain  prepares  her  banners  to  unfold, 

And  Rome  deals  out  her  blessings,  and  her  gold : 
Then  o’er  the  map  my  finger,  taught  to  stray, 
Cross  many  a region  marks  the  winding  way ; 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  realm  to  realm  I rove, 
And  grow  a mere  geographer  by  love  : 

But  still  Avignon,  and  the  pleasing  coast 
That  holds  thee  banish’d,  claims  my  care  the  most : 


52 


THE  POEMS 


Oft  on  the  well-known  spot  I fix  my  eyes, 

And  span  the  distance  that  between  us  lies. 

Let  notour  James,  though  foil’d  in  arms,  despair, 
Whilst  on  his  side  he  reckons  half  the  fair : 

In  Britain’s  lovely  isle  a shining  throng 
War  in  his  cause,  a thousand  beauties  strong. 

Th’  unthinking  victors  vainly  boast  their  powers ; 
Be  theirs  the  musket,  while  the  tongue  is  ours. 
We  reason  with  such  fluency  and  fire, 

The  beaux  we  baffle,  and  the  learned  tire, 
Against  her  prelates  plead  the  church’s  cause, 
And  from  our  judges  vindicate  the  laws.  [lost ; 
Then  mourn  not,  hapless  prince,  thy  kingdoms 
A crown,  though  late,  thy  sacred  brows  may  boast ; 
Heaven  seems  through  us  thy  empire  to  decree ; 
Those  who  win  hearts,  have  given  their  hearts  to 
thee. 

Hast  thou  not  heard  that  when,  profusely  gay, 
Our  well-drest  rivals  grac’d  their  sovereign’s  day, 
We  stubborn  damsels  met  the  public  view 
In  loathsome  wormwood,  and  repenting  rue  ? 
What  Whig  but  trembled,  when  our  spotless  band 
In  virgin  roses  whiten’d  half  the  land  ! 

Who  can  forget  what  fears  the  foe  possest, 

When  oaken-boughs  mark’d  every  loyal  breast ! 
Less  scar’d  than  Medway’s  stream  the  Norman 
stood, 

When  cross  the  plain  he  spy’d  a marching  wood, 
Till,  near  at  hand,  a gleam  of  swords  betray’d 
The  youth  of  Kent  beneath  its  wandering  shade  ? 


OF  TICKELL. 


53 


Those  who  the  succours  of  the  fair  despise, 
May  find  that  we  have  nails  as  well  as  eyes. 

Thy  female  bards,  O prince  by  fortune  crost, 

At  least  more  courage  than  thy  men  can  boast : 
Our  sex  has  dar’d  the  mug-house  chiefs  to  meet, 
And  purchas’d  fame  in  many  a well-fought  street. 
From  Drury-Lane,  the  region  of  renown, 

The  land  of  love,  the  Paphos  of  the  town, 

Fair  patriots  sallying  oft  have  put  to  flight 
With  all  their  poles  the  guardians  of  the  night, 
And  bore,  with  screams  of  triumph,  to  their  side 
The  leader’s  staff  in  all  its  painted  pride. 

Nor  fears  the  hawker  in  her  warbling  note 
To  vend  the  discontented  statesman’s  thought, 
Though  red  with  stripes,  and  recent  from  the  thong, 
Sore  smitten  for  the  love  of  sacred  song, 

The  tuneful  sisters  still  pursue  their  trade, 

Like  Philomela  darkling  in  the  shade. 

Poor  Trott  attends,  forgetful  of  a fare, 

And  hums  in  concert  o’er  his  easy  chair. 

Meanwhile,  regardless  of  the  royal  cause, 

His  sword  for  James  no  brother  sovereign  draws 
The  pope  himself,  surrounded  with  alarms, 

To  France  his  bulls,  to  Corfu  sends  his  arms, 
And  though  he  hears  his  darling  son’s  complaint, 
Can  hardly  spare  one  tutelary  saint, 

But  lists  them  all  to  guard  his  own  abodes, 

And  into  ready  money  coins  his  gods. 

The  dauntless  Swede,  pursued  by  vengeful  foes, 
Scarce  keeps  his  own  hereditary  snowrs  ; 


54 


THE  POEMS 


Nor  must  the  friendly  roof  of  kind  Lorrain 
With  feasts  regale  our  garter’d  youth  again. 

Safe,  Bar-le-Duc,  within  thy  silent  grove 
The  pheasant  now  may  perch,  the  hare  may  rove : 
The  knight,  who  aims  unerring  from  afar, 

Th’  adventurous  knight,  now  quits  the  sylvan  war : 
Thy  brinded  boars  may  slumber  undismay’d, 

Or  grunt  secure  beneath  the  chestnut  shade. 
Inconstant  Orleans  (still  we  mourn  the  day, 

That  trusted  Orleans  with  imperial  sway) 

Far  o’er  the  Alps  our  helpless  monarch  sends, 
Far  from  the  call  of  his  desponding  friends. 

Such  are  the  terms,  to  gain  Britannia’s  grace  ! 
And  such  the  terrors  of  the  Brunswick  race ! 

Was  it  for  this  the  Sun’s  whole  lustre  fail’d, 
And  sudden  midnight  o’er  the  Moon  prevail’d  ! 
For  this  did  Heaven  display  to  mortal  eyes 
Aerial  knights  and  combats  in  the  skies ! 

Was  it  for  this  Northumbrian  streams  look’d  red! 
And  Thames  driv’n  backward  show’d  his  secret 
bed! 

False  auguries ! th’  insulting  victor’s  scorn ! 

Ev’n  our  own  prodigies  against  us  turn ! 

0 portents  construed  on  our  side  in  vain ! 

Let  never  Tory  trust  eclipse  again  ! 

Run  clear,  ye  fountains  ! be  at  peace,  ye  skies ! 
And,  Thames,  henceforth  to  thy  green  borders 
rise ! 

To  Rome  then  must  the  royal  wanderer  go, 
And  fall  a suppliant  at  the  papal  toe  ? 


OF  TICKELL. 


55 


His  life  in  sloth  inglorious  must  he  wear, 

One  half  in  luxury,  and  one  in  prayer  ? 

His  mind  perhaps  at  length  debauch’d  with  ease, 
The  proffer’d  purple  and  the  hat  may  please. 

Shall  he,  whose  ancient  patriarchal  race 
To  mighty  Nimrod  in  one  line  we  trace, 

In  solemn  conclave  sit,  devoid  of  thought, 

And  poll  for  points  of  faith  his  trusty  vote ! 

Be  summon’d  to  his  stall  in  time  of  need, 

And  with  his  casting  suffrage  fix  a creed ! 

Shall  he  in  robes  on  stated  days  appear, 

And  English  heretics  curse  once  a year  ! 

Garnet  and  Faux  shall  he  with  prayers  invoke, 
And  beg  that  Smithfield  piles  once  more  may 
smoke  ! 

Forbid  it,  Heaven ! my  soul,  to  fury  wrought, 
Turns  almost  Hanoverian  at  the  thought. 

From  James  and  Rome  I feel  my  heart  decline, 
And  fear,  0 Brunswick,  ’twill  be  wholly  thine ; 
Yet  still  his  share  thy  rival  will  contest, 

And  still  the  double  claim  divides  my  breast. 

The  fate  of  James  with  pitying  eyes  I view, 

And  wish  my  homage  were  not  Brunswick’s 
due : 

To  James  my  passion  and  my  weakness  guide, 

But  reason  sways  me  to  the  victor’s  side. 

Though  griev’d  I speak  it,  let  the  truth  appear ! * 
You  know  my  language,  and  my  heart,  sincere. 

In  vain  did  falsehood  his  fair  fame  disgrace  ? 

What  force  had  falsehood,  when  he  show’d  his  face ! 


56 


THE  POEMS 


In  yam  to  war  our  boastful  clans  were  led ; 
Heaps  driv’n  on  heaps,  in  the  dire  shock  they  fled : 
France  shuns  his  wrath,  nor  raises  to  our  shame 
A second  Dunkirk  in  another  name : 

In  Britain’s  funds  their  wealth  all  Europe  throws : 
And  up  the  Thames  the  world’s  abundance  flows : 
Spite  of  feign’d  fears  and  artificial  cries, 

The  pious  town  sees  fifty  churches  rise : 

The  hero  triumphs  as  his  worth  is  known, 

And  sits  more  firmly  on  his  shaken  throne. 

To  my  sad  thought  no  beam  of  hope  appears 
Through  the  long  prospect  of  succeeding  years. 
The  son,  aspiring  to  his  father’s  fame, 

Shows  all  his  sire : another  and  the  same. 

He,  blest  in  lovely  Carolina’s  arms, 

To  future  ages  propagates  her  charms  : 

With  pain  and  joy  at  strife,  I often  trace 
The  mingled  parents  in  each  daughter’s  face ; 
Half  sickening  at  the  sight,  too  well  I spy 
The  father’s  spirit  through  the  mother’s  eye : 

In  vain  new  thoughts  of  rage  I entertain, 

And  strive  to  hate  their  innocence  in  vain. 

O princess  ! happy  by  thy  foes  confest ! 

Blest  in  thy  husband ! in  thy  children  blest ! 

As  they  from  thee,  from  them  new  beauties  born, 
While  Europe  lasts,  shall  Europe’s  thrones  adorn. 
Transplanted  to  each  court,  in  times  to  come, 
Thy  smile  celestial  and  unfading  bloom, 

Great  Austria’s  sons  with  softer  lines  shall  grace, 
And  smooth  the  frowns  of  Bourbon’s  haughty  race. 


OF  TICKELL. 


57 


The  fair  descendants  of  thy  sacred  bed, 
Wide-branching  o’er  the  western  world  shall 
spread, 

Like  the  fam’d  Banian  tree,  whose  pliant  shoot 
To  earthward  bending  of  itself  takes  root, 

Till,  like  their  mother  plant,  ten  thousand  stand 
In  verdant  arches  on  the  fertile  land ; 

Beneath  her  shade  the  tawny  Indians  rove, 

Or  hunt,  at  large,  through  the  wide  echoing  grove. 

O thou,  to  whom  these  mournful  lines  I send, 
My  promis’d  husband,  and  my  dearest  friend ; 
Since  Heaven  appoints  this  favour’d  race  to  reign, 
And  blood  has  drench’d  the  Scottish  fields  in  vain  ; 
Must  I be  wretched,  and  thy  flight  partake  ? 

Or  wilt  not  thou,  for  thy  lov’d  Chloe’s  sake, 

Tir’d  out  at  length,  submit  to  fate’s  decree  ? 

If  not  to  Brunswick,  O return  to  me  ! 

Prostrate  before  the  victor’s  mercy  bend  : 

What  spares  whole  thousands,  may  to  thee  extend. 
Should  blinded  friends  thy  doubtful  conduct  blame, 
Great  Brunswick’s  virtue  shall  secure  thy  fame  : 
Say  these  invite  thee  to  approach  his  throne, 

And  own  the  monarch,  Heaven  vouchsafes  to  own : 
The  world,  convinc’d  thy  reasons  will  approve ; 
Say  this  to  them ; but  swear  to  me  ’twas  love. 


58 


THE  POEMS 


AN  ODE, 

OCCASIONED  BY  HIS  EXCELLENCY  THE  EAKL  OF 
STANHOPE^  VOYAGE  TO  FRANCE,  1718. 

Idem 

Pads  eras  mediusque  belli.  Hor. 

Fair  daughter  once  of  Windsor’s  woods  ! 

In  safety  o’er  the  rolling  floods, 

Britannia’s  boast  and  darling  care, 

Big  with  the  fate  of  Europe,  bear. 

May  winds  propitious  on  his  way 
The  minister  of  peace  convey ; 

Nor  rebel  wave,  nor  rising  storm, 

Great  George’s  liquid  realms  deform. 

Our  vows  are  heard.  Thy  crowded  sails 
Already  swell  with  western  gales  ; 

Already  Albion’s  coast  retires, 

And  Calais  multiplies  her  spires : 

At  length  has  royal  Orleans  prest, 

With  open  arms,  the  well-known  guest ; 

Before  in  sacred  friendship  join’d, 

And  now  in  counsels  for  mankind  : 


OF  TICKELL. 


59 


Whilst  his  clear  schemes  our  patriot  shows, 
And  plans  the  threaten’d  world’s  repose, 
They  fix  each  haughty  monarch’s  doom, 

And  bless  whole  ages  yet  to  come. 

Henceforth  great  Brunswick  shall  decree 
What  flag  must  awe  the  Tyrrhene  sea ; 

From  whom  the  Tuscan  grape  shall  glow, 
And  fruitful  Arethusa  flow. 

See  in  firm  leagues  with  Thames  combine 
The  Seine,  the  Maese,  and  distant  Bhine ! 
Nor,  Ebro,  let  thy  single  rage 
With  half  the  warring  world  engage. 

Oh ! call  to  mind  thy  thousands  slain, 

And  Almanara’s  fatal  plain  ; 

While  yet  the  Gallic  terrours  sleep, 

Nor  Britain  thunders  from  the  deep. 


PROLOGUE 

TO  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD,  1713. 

What  kings  henceforth  shall  reign,  what  states  be 
free, 

Is  fixt  at  length  by  Anna’s  just  decree : 

Whose  brows  the  Muse’s  sacred  wreath  shall  fit 
Is  left  to  you,  the  arbiters  of  wit. 


60 


THE  POEMS 


With  beating  hearts  the  rival  poets  wait, 

Till  you,  Athenians,  shall  decide  their  fate  ; 
Secure,  when  to  these  learned  seats  they  come, 
Of  equal  judgment,  and  impartial  doom. 

Poor  is  the  player’s  fame,  whose  whole  renown 
Is  but  the  praise  of  a capricious  town  ; 

While,  with  mock-majesty,  and  fancy’d  power, 
He  struts  in  robes,  the  monarch  of  an  hour. 

Oft  wide  of  nature  must  he  act  a part, 

Make  love  in  tropes,  in  bombast  break  his  heart : 
In  turn  and  simile  resign  his  breath, 

And  rhyme  and  quibble  in  the  pangs  of  death. 
We  blush,  when  plays  like  these  receive  applause  ; 
And  laugh,  in  secret,  at  the  tears  we  cause ; 

With  honest  scorn  our  own  success  disdain, 

A worthless  honour,  and  in  glorious  gain. 

No  trifling  scenes  at  Oxford  shall  appear ; 
Well,  what  we  blush  to  act,  may  you  to  hear. 

To  you  our  fam’d,  our  standard  plays  we  bring, 
The  work  of  poets,  whom  you  taught  to  sing : 
Though  crown’d  with  fame,  they  dare  not  think  it 
Nor  take  the  laurel  till  bestow’d  by  you.  [due, 
Great  Cato’s  self,  the  glory  of  the  stage, 

Who  charms,  corrects,  exalts,  and  fires  the  age, 
Begs  here  he  may  be  try’d  by  Roman  laws  ; 

To  you,  0 fathers,  he  submits  his  cause  ; 

He  rests  not  in  the  people’s  general  voice, 

Till  you,  the  senate,  have  confirm’d  his  choice. 

Fine  is  the  secret,  delicate  the  art, 

To  wind  the  passions,  and  command  the  heart ; 


OF  TICEELL. 


61 


For  fancy’d  ills  to  force  our  tears  to  flow, 

And  make  the  generous  soul  in  love  with  woe ; 
To  raise  the  shades  of  heroes  to  our  view ; 
'Rebuild  fall’n  empires,  and  old  time  renew. 

How  hard  the  task  ! how  rare  the  godlike  rage  ! 
None  should  presume  to  dictate  for  the  stage, 

But  such  as  boast  a great  extensive  mind, 
Enrich’d  by  Nature,  and  by  Art  refin’d ; 

Who  from  the  ancient  stores  their  knowledge  bring, 
And  tasted  early  of  the  Muses’  spring. 

May  none  pretend  upon  her  throne  to  sit, 

But  such  as,  sprung  from  you,  are  born  to  wit : 
Chosen  by  the  mob,  their  lawless  claim  we  slight : 
Yours  is  the  old  hereditary  right. 


62 


THE  POEMS 


THOUGHTS 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  SIGHT  OF  AN  ORIGINAL 
PICTURE  OF  KING  CHARLES  I.  TAKEN 
AT  THE  TIME  OF  HIS  TRIAL. 

INSCRIBED  TO  GEORGE  CLARKE,  ESQ. 

....  Animum  pictura  pascit  inani 

Multa  gemens,  largoque  humectat  fl amine  vultum. 

VlRG. 

Can  this  be  he ! could  Charles,  the  good,  the  great, 
Be  sunk  by  Heaven  to  such  a dismal  state ! 

How  meagre,  pale,  neglected,  worn  with  care ! 
What  steady  sadness,  and  august  despair  ! 

In  those  sunk  eyes  the  grief  of  years  I trace, 

And  sorrow  seems  acquainted  with  that  face. 
Tears,  which  his  heart  disdain’d,  from  me  o’erflow, 
Thus  to  survey  God’s  substitute  below, 

In  solemn  anguish,  and  majestic  woe. 

When  spoil’d  of  empire  by  unhallow’d  hands, 
Sold  by  his  slaves,  and  held  in  impious  bands ; 
Rent  from,  what  oft  had  sweeten’d  anxious  life, 
His  helpless  children,  and  his  bosom  wife ; 
Doom’d  for  the  faith,  plebeian  rage  to  stand, 

And  fall  a victim  for  the  guilty  land ; 


OF  TICKELL. 


63 


Then  thus  was  seen,  abandon’d  and  forlorn, 

The  king,  the  father,  and  the  saint  to  mourn. — 
How  could’st  thou,  artist,  then  thy  skill  display  ? 
Thy  steady  hands  thy  savage  heart  betray : 

Near  thy  bold  work  the  stunn’d  spectators  faint, 
Nor  see  unmov’d,  what  thou  unmov’d  could’st  paint. 
What  brings  to  mind  each  various  scene  of  woe, 
Th’  insulting  judge,  the  solemn-mocking  show, 
The  horrid  sentence,  and  accursed  blow,  [hand, 
Where  then,  just  Heaven,  was  thy  unactive 
Thy  idle  thunder,  and  thy  lingering  brand ! 

Thy  adamantine  shield,  thy  angel  wings, 

And  the  great  genii  of  anointed  kings ! 

Treason  and  fraud  shall  thus  the  stars  regard ; 
And  injur’d  virtue  meet  this  sad  reward ! 

So  sad,  none  like,  can  Time’s  old  records  tell, 
Though  Pompey  bled,  and  poor  Darius  fell. 

All  names  but  one  too  low — that  one  too  high  : 
All  parallels  are  wrongs,  or  blasphemy. 

0 Power  Supreme  ! How  secret  are  thy  ways  ! 
Yet  man,  vain  man,  would  trace  the  mystic  maze, 
With  foolish  wisdom,  arguing,  charge  his  God, 
His  balance  hold,  and  guide  his  angry  rod ; 
New-mould  the  spheres,  and  mend  the  sky’s 
design, 

And  sound  th’  immense  with  his  short  scanty  line. 
Do  thou,  my  soul,  the  destin’d  period  wait, 

When  God  shall  solve  the  dark  decrees  of  fate, 
His  now  unequal  dispensations  clear, 

And  make  all  wise  and  beautiful  appear  ; 


64 


THE  POEMS 


When  suffering  saints  aloft  in  beams  shall  glow, 
And  prosperous  traitors  gnash  their  teeth  below. 

Such  boding  thoughts  did  guilty  conscience  dart, 
A pledge  of  Hell  to  dying  Cromwell’s  heart : 
Then  this  pale  image  seem’d  t’  invade  his  room, 
Gaz’d  him  to  stone,  and  warn’d  him  to  the  tomb. 
While  thunders  roll,  and  nimble  lightnings  play, 
And  the  storm  wings  his  spotted  soul  away. 

A blast  more  bounteous  ne’er  did  Heaven  com- 
mand 

To  scatter  blessings  o’er  the  British  land. 

Not  that  more  kind,  which  dash’d  the  pride  of  Spain, 
And  whirl’d  her  crush’d  Armada  round  the  main ; 
Not  those  more  kind,  which  guide  our  floating 
towers, 

Waft  gums  and  gold,  and  made  far  India  ours : 
That  only  kinder,  which  to  Britain’s  shore 
Did  mitres,  crowns,  and  Stuart’s  race  restore, 
Renew’d  the  church,  revers’d  the  kingdom’s  doom, 
And  brought  with  Charles  an  Anna  yet  to  come. 

O Clarke,  to  whom  a Stuart  trusts  her  reign 
O’er  Albion’s  fleets,  and  delegates  the  main ; 
Dear,  as  the  faith  thy  loyal  heart  hath  sworn, 
Transmit  this  piece  to  ages  yet  unborn. 

This  sight  shall  damp  the  raging  ruffian’s  breast, 
The  poison  spill,  and  half-drawn  sword  arrest ; 

To  soft  compassion  stubborn  traitors  bend, 

And,  one  destroy’d,  a thousand  kings  defend. 


OF  TICKELL. 


65 


A FRAGMENT 

OF  A POEM  ON  HUNTING. 


Dona  cano  divum  lsetas  venantibus  artes, 

Auspicio,  Diana,  tuo Gratius. 

Horses  and  hounds,  their  care,  their  various  race, 
The  numerous  beasts,  that  range  the  rural  chase, 
The  huntsman's  chosen  scenes,  his  friendly  stars, 
The  laws  and  glory  of  the  sylvan  wars, 

I first  in  British  verse  presume  to  raise ; 

A venturous  rival  of  the  Roman  praise. 

Let  me,  chaste  queen  of  woods,  thy  aid  obtain, 
Bring  here  thy  light-foot  nymphs,  and  sprightly 
train  : 

If  oft,  o’er  lawns,  thy  care  prevents  the  day 
To  rouse  the  foe,  and  press  the  bounding  prey, 
Woo  thine  own  Phoebus  in  the  task  to  join, 

And  grant  me  genius  for  the  bold  design. 

In  this  soft  shade,  O soothe  the  warrior’s  fire, 
And  fit  his  bow-string  to  the  trembling  lyre ; 

And  teach,  while  thus  their  arts  and  arms  we  sing, 

The  groves  to  echo,  and  the  vales  to  ring. 

******** 

******* 


5 


66 


THE  POEMS 


Thy  care  be  first  the  various  gifts  to  trace, 

The  minds  and  genius  of  the  latrant  race. 

In  powers  distinct  the  different  clans  excel, 

In  sight,  or  swiftness,  or  sagacious  smell ; 

By  wiles  ungenerous  some  surprise  the  prey, 

And  some  by  courage  win  the  doubtful  day. 

Seest  thou  the  gaze-hound ! how  with  glance 
severe 

From  the  close  herd  he  marks  the  destin’d  deer! 
How  every  nerve  the  greyhound’s  stretch  displays, 
The  hare  preventing  in  her  airy  maze ; 

The  luckless  prey  how  treacherous  tumblers  gain, 
And  dauntless  wolf-dogs  shake  the  lion’s  mane ; 
O’er  all,  the  bloodhound  boasts  superior  skill, 

To  scent,  to  view,  to  turn,  and  boldly  kill ! 

His  fellows’  vain  alarms  rejects  with  scorn, 

True  to  the  master’s  voice,  and  learned  horn. 

His  nostrils  oft,  if  ancient  Fame  sing  true, 

Trace  the  sly  felon  through  the  tainted  dew  ; 
Once  snuff’d,  he  follows  with  unalter’d  aim, 

Nor  odours  lure  him  from  the  chosen  game  ; 

Deep  mouth’d  he  thunders,  and  inflam’d  he 
views, 

Springs  on  relentless,  and  to  death  pursues. 

Some  hounds  of  manners  vile,  (nor  less  we  find 
Of  fops  in  hounds,  than  in  the  reasoning  kind,) 
Puft’d  wdth  conceit  run  gladding  o’er  the  plain, 
And  from  the  scent  divert  the  wiser  train ; 

For  the  foe’s  footsteps  fondly  snuff  their  own, 
And  mar  the  music  with  their  senseless  tone ; 


I 


OF  TICKELL. 


67 


Start  at  the  starting  prey,  or  rustling  wind, 

And,  hot  at  first,  inglorious  lag  behind. 

A sauntering  tribe ! may  such  my  foes  disgrace  ! 
Give  me,  ye  gods,  to  breed  the  nobler  race. 

Nor  grieve  thou  to  attend,  while  truths  unknown 
I sing,  and  make  Athenian  arts  our  owTn. 

Dost  thou  in  hounds  aspire  to  deathless  fame  ? 
Learn  well  their  lineage  and  their  ancient  stem. 
Each  tribe  with  joy  old  rustic  heralds  trace, 

And  sing  the  chosen  worthies  of  their  race ; 

How  his  sire’s  features  in  the  son  were  spy’d, 
When  Die  was  made  the  vigorous  Ringwood’s 
bride. 

Less  sure  thick  lips  the  fate  of  Austria  doom, 

Or  eagle  noses  rul’d  almighty  Rome. 

Good  shape  to  various  kinds  old  bards  confine, 
Some  praise  the  Greek,  and  some  the  Roman  line ; 
And  dogs  to  beauty  make  as  differing  claims, 

As  Albion’s  nymphs,  and  India’s  jetty  dames. 
Immense  to  name  their  lands,  to  mark  their  bounds, 
And  paint  the  thousand  families  of  hounds : 

First  count  the  sands,  the  drops  where  oceans  flow, 
Or  Gauls  by  Marlborough  sent  to  shades  below, 
The  task  be  mine,  to  teach  Britannia’s  swains, 
My  much-lov’d  country,  and  my  native  plains. 
Such  be  the  dog,  I charge,  thou  mean’st  to 
train, 

His  back  is  crooked,  and  his  belly  plain, 

Of  fillet  stretch’d,  and  huge  of  haunch  behind, 

A tapering  tail,  that  nimbly  cuts  the  wind ; 


68 


THE  POEMS 


Truss-thigh’d,  straight-ham’d,  and  fox-like  form’d 
his  paw, 

Large-legg’d,  dry  sol’d,  and  of  protended  claw. 
His  flat,  wide  nostrils  snuff  the  savoury  steam, 
And  from  his  eyes  he  shoots  pernicious  gleam  ; 
Middling  his  head,  and  prone  to  earth  his  view, 
With  ears  and  chest  that  dash  the  morning  dew : 
He  best  to  stem  the  flood,  to  leap  the  bound, 

And  charm  the  Dryads  with  his  voice  profound; 
To  pay  large  tribute  to  his  weary  lord, 

And  crown  the  sylvan  hero’s  plenteous  board. 

The  matron  bitch  whose  womb  shall  best 
produce 

The  hopes  and  fortune  of  th’  illustrious  house, 
Deriv’d  from  noble,  but  from  foreign  seed, 

For  various  nature  loaths  incestuous  breed, 

Is  like  the  sire  throughout.  Nor  yet  displease 
Large  flanks,  and  ribs,  to  give  the  teemer  ease. 
In  Spring  let  loose  thy  pairs.  Then  all  things 
prove 

The  stings  of  pleasure,  and  the  pangs  of  love  : 
Ethereal  Jove  then  glads,  with  genial  showers, 
Earth’s  mighty  womb,  and  strews  her  lap  with 
flowers. 

Hence  juices  mount,  and  buds,  embolden’d,  try 
More  kindly  breezes,  and  a softer  sky : 

Kind  Venus  revels.  Hark!  on  every  bough, 

In  lulling  strains  the  feather’d  warblers  woo. 

Fell  tigers  soften  in  th’  infectious  flames, 

And  lions  fawning,  court  their  brinded  dames  : 


OF  TICXELL. 


69 


Great  Love  pervades  the  deep  ; to  please  his  mate, 
The  whale,  in  gambols,  moves  his  monstrous 
weight, 

Heav’d  by  his  wayward  mirth  old  Ocean  roars, 
And  scatter’d  navies  bulge  on  distant  shores. 

All  Nature  smiles ; come  now,  nor  fear,  my  love, 
To  taste  the  odours  of  the  woodbine  grove, 

To  pass  the  evening  glooms  in  harmless  play, 
And,  sweetly  swearing,  languish  life  away. 

An  altar,  bound  with  recent  flowers,  I rear 
To  thee,  best  season  of  the  various  year ; 

All  hail ! such  days  in  beauteous  order  ran, 

So  swift,  so  sweet,  when  first  the  world  began, 

In  Eden’s  bowers,  when  man’s  great  sire  assign’d 
The  names  and  natures  of  the  brutal  kind. 

Then  lamb  and  lion  friendly  walk’d  their  round, 
And  hares,  undaunted,  lick’d  the  fondling  hound  ; 
Wondrous  to  tell!  but  when,  with  luckless  hand, 
Our  daring  mother  broke  the  sole  command, 
Then  Want  and  Envy  brought  their  meagre  train, 
Then  Wrath  came  down,  and  Death  had  leave  to 
reign  : 

Hence  foxes  earth’d,  and  wolves  abhorr’d  the  day, 
And  hungry  churls  ensnar’d  the  nightly  prey ; 
Rude  arts  at  first ; but  witty  Want  refin’d 
The  huntsman’s  wiles,  and  F amine  form’d  the  mind. 

Bold  Nimrod  first  the  lion’s  trophies  wore, 

The  panther  bound,  and  lanc’d  the  bristling  boar ; 
He  taught  to  turn  the  hare,  to  bay  the  deer, 

And  wheel  the  courser  in  his  mid  career : 


70 


THE  POEMS 


Ah ! had  he  there  restrain’d  his  tyrant  hand  ! 

Let  me,  ye  powers,  an  humbler  wreath  demand. 
No  pomps  I ask,  which  crowns  and  sceptres  yield, 
Nor  dangerous  laurels  in  the  dusty  field ; 

Fast  by  the  forest,  and  the  limpid  spring, 

Give  me  the  warfare  of  the  woods  to  sing, 

To  breed  my  whelps,  and  healthful  press  the  game, 
A mean,  inglorious,  but  a guiltless  name. 

And  now  thy  female  bears  in  ample  womb 
The  bane  of  hares,  and  triumphs  yet  to  come. 

No  sport,  I ween,  nor  blast  of  sprightly  horn, 
Should  tempt  me  then  to  hurt  the  whelps  unborn. 
Unlock’d,  in  covers  let  her  freely  run, 

To  range  thy  courts,  and  bask  before  the  sun ; 
Near  thy  full  table  let  the  favourite  stand, 

Strok’d  by  thy  son’s,  or  blooming  daughter’s  hand. 
Caress,  indulge,  by  arts  the  matron  bride, 

T’  improve  her  breed,  and  teem  a vigorous  tribe. 

So,  if  small  things  may  be  compar’d  with  great, 
And  Nature’s  works  the  Muses  imitate, 

So  stretch’d  in  shades,  and  lull’d  by  murmuring 
streams, 

Great  Maro’s  breast  receiv’d  the  heavenly  dreams. 
Recluse,  serene,  the  musing  prophet  lay, 

Till  thoughts  in  embryo,  ripening,  burst  their  way. 
Hence  bees  in  state,  and  foaming  coursers  come, 

Heroes,  and  gods,  and  walls  of  lofty  Rome. 

************ 

sL-  vk.  *1*  2k.  2k.  2k.  2k. 

'f*  * >lv  * ^ * 


OF  TICKELL. 


71 


TO  APOLLO  MAKING  LOYE. 

FROM  MONSIEUR  FONTENELLE. 

I am,  cry’d  Apollo,  when  Daphne  he  woo’d, 

And  panting  for  breath,  the  coy  virgin  pursued, 

When  his  wisdom,  in  manner  most  ample,  exprest, 

The  long  list  of  the  graces  his  godship  possest : 

I’m  the  god  of  sweet  song,  and  inspirer  of  lays  ; 

Nor  for  lays,  nor  sweet  song,  the  fair  fugitive  stays ; 

I’m  the  god  of  the  harp — stop  my  fairest — in  vain ; 

Nor  the  harp,  nor  the  harper  could  fetch  her  again. 

Every  plant,  every  flower,  and  their  virtues  I 
know, 

God  of  light  I’m  above,  and  of  physic  below : 

At  the  dreadful  word  physic,  the  nymph  fled  more 
fast ; 

At  the  fatal  word  physic  she  doubled  her  haste. 

Thou  fond  god  of  wisdom,  then,  alter  thy  phrase, 

Bid  her  view  the  young  bloom,  and  thy  ravishing 
rays, 

Tell  her  less  of  thy  knowledge,  and  more  of  thy 
charms, 

And,  my  life  for’t,  the  damsel  will  fly  to  thy  arms. 


72 


THE  POEMS 


THE  FATAL  CURIOSITY. 

Much  had  I heard  of  fair  Francelia’s  name, 

The  lavish  praises  of  the  babbler,  Fame : 

I thought  them  such,  and  went  prepar’d  to  pry, 
And  trace  the  charmer,  with  a critic’s  eye ; 
Resolv’d  to  find  some  fault,  before  unspy’d, 

And  disappointed,  if  but  satisfy’d. 

Love  pierc’d  the  vassal  heart,  that  durst  rebel, 
And  where  a judge  was  meant,  a victim  fell : 

On  those  dear  eyes,  with  sweet  perdition  gay, 

I gaz’d,  at  once,  my  pride  and  soul  away ; 

All  o’er  I felt  the  luscious  poison  run, 

And,  in  a look,  the  hasty  conquest  won. 

Thus  the  fond  moth  around  the  taper  plays, 
And  sports  and  flutters  near  the  treacherous  blaze ; 
Ravish’d  with  joy,  he  wings  his  eager  flight, 

Nor  dreams  of  ruin  in  so  clear  a light ; 

He  tempts  his  fate,  and  courts  a glorious  doom, 

A bright  destruction,  and  a shining  tomb. 


OF  TIGKELL. 


73 


TO  A LADY: 

WITH  A DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  PHENIX. 

i 

Lavish  of  wit,  and  bold,  appear  the  lines, 

Where  Claudian’s  genius  in  the  Phenix  shines  ; 
A thousand  ways  each  brilliant  point  is  turn’d, 
And  the  gay  poem,  like  its  theme,  adorn’d : 

A tale  more  strange  ne’er  grac’d  the  poet’s  art, 
Nor  e’er  did  fiction  play  so  wild  a part. 

Each  fabled  charm  in  matchless  Cselia  meets, 
The  heavenly  colours,  and  ambrosial  sweets  ; 

Her  virgin  bosom  chaster  fires  supplies, 

And  beams  more  piercing  guard  her  kindred  eyes. 
O’erflowing  with  th’  imagin’d  wonder  drew, 

But  fertile  fancy  ne’er  can  reach  the  true. 

Now  buds  your  youth,  your  cheeks  their  bloom 
disclose, 

The  untainted  lily,  and  unfolding  rose  ; 

Ease  in  your  mien,  and  sweetness  in  your  face, 
You  speak  a Syren,  and  you  move  a Grace  ; 

Nor  time  shall  urge  these  beauties  to  decay, 
While  virtue  gives,  what  years  shall  steal  away  : 
The  fair,  whose  youth  can  boast  the  worth  of  age, 
In  age  shall  with  the  charms  of  youth  engage ; 

In  every  change  still  lovely,  still  the  same, 

A fairer  Phenix  in  a purer  flame. 


74 


the  poems 


A DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  PHENIX. 

FROM  CLAUDIAN. 

In  utmost  ocean  lies  a lovely  isle, 

Where  Spring  still  blooms,  and  greens  for  ever 
smile, 

Which  sees  the  Sun  put  on  his  first  array, 

And  hears  his  panting  steeds  bring  on  the  day ; 
When,  from  the  deep,  they  rush  with  rapid  force, 
And  whirl  aloft,  to  run  their  glorious  course ; 
When  first  appear  the  ruddy  streaks  of  light, 
And  glimmering  beams  dispel  the  parting  night. 

In  these  soft  shades,  unprest  by  human  feet, 
The  happy  Phenix  keeps  his  balmy  seat, 

Far  from  the  world  disjoin’d  ; he  reigns  alone, 
Alike  the  empire,  and  its  king  unknown. 

A godlike  bird ! whose  endless  round  of  years 
Outlasts  the  stars,  and  tires  the  circling  spheres ; 
Not  us’d  like  vulgar  birds  to  eat  his  fill, 

Or  drink  the  crystal  of  the  murmuring  rill ; 

But  fed  with  warmth  from  Titan’s  purer  ray, 
And  slak’d  by  streams  which  eastern  seas  convey  ; 
Still  he  renews  his  life  in  these  abodes, 

Contemns  the  power  of  Fate,  and  mates  the  gods. 


OF  TICKELL. 


75 


His  fiery  eyes  shoot  forth  a glittering  ray, 

And  round  his  head  ten  thousand  glories  play ; 
High  on  his  crest,  a star  celestial  bright 
Divides  the  darkness  with  its  piercing  light ; 

His  legs  are  stain’d  with  purple’s  lively  dye. 

His  azure  wings  the  fleeting  winds  outfly  ; 

Soft  plumes  of  cheerful  blue  his  limbs  infold, 
Enrich’d  with  spangles,  and  bedropt  with  gold. 

Begot  by  none  himself,  begetting  none, 

Sire  of  himself  he  is,  and  of  himself  the  son ; 

His  life  in  fruitful  death  renews  his  date, 

And  kind  destruction  but  prolongs  his  fate  : 

Ev’n  in  the  grave  new  strength  his  limbs  receive, 
And  on  the  funeral  pile  begin  to  live. 

For  when  a thousand  times  the  summer  Sun 
His  bending  race  has  on,  the  zodiac  run, 

And  when  as  oft  the  vernal  signs  have  roll’d,  ^ 
As  oft  the  wintery  brought  the  numbing  cold ; 
Then  drops  the  bird,  worn  out  with  aged  cares, 
And  bends  beneath  the  mighty  load  of  years. 

So  falls  the  stately  pine,  that  proudly  grew, 
The  shade  and  glory  of  the  mountain’s  brow. 
When  pierc’d  by  blasts,  and  spouting  clouds  o’er- 
It,  slowly  sinking,  nods  its  tottering  head,  [spread. 
Part  dies  by  winds,  and  part  by  sickly  rains, 

And  wasting  age  destroys  the  poor  remains. 

Then,  as  the  silver  empress  of  the  night, 
O’erclouded,  glimmers  in  a fainter  light, 

So  froz’n  with  age,  and  shut  from  light’s  supplies, 
In  lazy  rounds  scarce  roll  his  feeble  eyes, 


76 


THE  POEMS 


And  those  fleet  wings,  for  strength  and  speed  re- 
nown’d, 

Scarce  rear  th’  inactive  lumber  from  the  ground. 

Mysterious  arts  a second  time  create 
The  bird,  prophetic  of  approaching  fate. 

Pil’d  on  a heap  Sabaean  herbs  he  lays, 

Parch’d  by  his  sire  the  Sun’s  intensest  rays  ; 

The  pile  design’d  to  form  his  funeral  scene 
He  wraps  in  covers  of  a fragrant  green, 

And  bids  his  spicy  heap  at  once  become 
A grave  destructive,  and  a teeming  womb. 

On  the  rich  bed  the  dying  wonder  lies, 
Imploring  Phoebus  with  persuasive  cries, 

To  dart  upon  him  in  collected  rays, 

And  new-create  him  in  a deadly  blaze. 

The  god  beholds  the  suppliant  from  afar, 

And  stops  the  progress  of  his  heavenly  car. 

“ 0 thou,”  says  he,,  “ whom  harmless  fires  shall 
burn, 

Thy  age  the  flame  to  second  youth  shall  turn, 

An  infant’s  cradle  is  thy  funeral  urn.  [doom 
Thou,  on  whom  Heaven  has  fix’d  th’  ambiguous 
To  live  by  ruin,  and  by  death  to  bloom, 

Thy  life,  thy  strength,  thy  lovely  form  renew, 
And  with  fresh  beauties  doubly  charm  the 
view.”  * 

Thus  speaking,  ’midst  the  aromatic  bed 
A golden  beam  he  tosses  from  his  head ; 

Swift  as  desire,  the  shining  ruin  flies, 

And  straight  devours  the  willing  sacrifice, 


OF  TICKELL. 


77 


Who  hastes  to  perish  in  the  fertile  fire, 

Sink  into  strength,  and  into  life  expire. 

In  flames  the  circling  odours  mount  on  high, 
Perfume  the  air,  and  glitter  in  the  sky, 

The  Moon  and  Stars,  amaz’d,  retard  their  flight, 
And  Nature  startles  at  the  doubtful  sight ; 

For,  whilst  the  pregnant  urn  with  fury  glows, 
The  goddess  labours  with  a mother’s  throes, 

Yet  joys  to  cherish,  in  the  friendly  flames, 

The  noblest  product  of  the  skill  she  claims. 

Th’  enlivening  dust  its  head  begins  to  rear, 
And  on  the  ashes  sprouting  plumes  appear ; 

In  the  dead  bird  reviving  vigour  reigns, 

And  life  returning  revels  in  his  veins : 

A new-born  Phenix  starting  from  the  flame, 
Obtains  at  once  a son’s,  and  father’s  name ; 

And  the  great  change  of  double  life  displays, 

In  the  short  moment  of  one  transient  blaze. 

On  his  new  pinions  to  the  Nile  he  bends, 

And  to  the  gods  his  parent  urn  commends, 

To  Egypt  bearing,  with  majestic  pride, 

The  balmy  nest,  where  first  he  liv’d  and  dy’d. 
Birds  of  all  kinds  admire  th’  unusual  sight, 

And  grace  the  triumph  of  his  infant  flight ; 

In  crowds  unnumber’d  round  their  chief  they  fly, 
Oppress  the  air,  and  cloud  the  spacious  sky ; 

Nor  dares  the  fiercest  of  the  winged  race 
Obstruct  his  journey  through  th’  ethereal  space ; 
The  hawk  and  eagle  useless  wars  forbear, 
Forego  their  courage,  and  consent  to  fear ; 


78 


THE  POEMS 


The  feather’d  nations  humble  homage  bring, 

And  bless  the  gaudy  flight  of  their  ambrosial  king. 
Less  glittering  pomp  does  Parthia’s  monarch 
yield, 

Commanding  legions  to  the  dusty  field  ; 

Though  sparkling  jewels  on  his  helm  abound, 
And  royal  gold  his  awful  head  surround ; 

Though  rich  embroidery  paint  his  purple  vest, 
And  his  steed  bound  in  costly  trappings  drest, 
Pleas’d  in  the  battle’s  dreadful  van  to  ride, 

In  graceful  grandeur,  and  imperial  pride. 

Fam’d  for  the  worship  of  the  Sun,  there  stands 
A sacred  fane  in  Egypt’s  fruitful  lands, 

Hewn  from  the  Theban  mountain’s  rocky  womb 
An  hundred  columns  rear  the  marble  dome  ; 
Hither,  ’tis  said,  he  brings  the  precious  load, 

A grateful  offering  to  the  beamy  god  ; 

Upon  whose  altar’s  consecrated  blaze 
The  seeds  and  relics  of  himself  he  lays, 

Whence  flaming  incense  makes  the  temple 
shine, 

And  the  glad  altars  breathe  perfumes  divine, 

The  wafted  smell  to  far  Pelusium  flies, 

To  cheer  old  Ocean,  and  enrich  the  skies, 

With  nectar’s  sweets  to  make  the  nations  smile, 
And  scent  the  seven-fold  channels  of  the  Nile. 

Thrice  happy  Phenix ! Heaven’s  peculiar  care 
Has  made  thyself  thyself’s  surviving  heir  ; 

By  Death  thy  deathless  vigour  is  supply’d, 
Which  sinks  to  ruin  all  the  world  beside ; • 


OF  TICKELL. 


79 


Thy  age,  not  thee,  assisting  Phoebus  burns, 

And  vital  flames  light  up  thy  funeral  urns. 
Whate’er  events  have  been,  thy  eyes  survey, 
And  thou  art  fixt,  while  ages  roll  away ; 

Thou  saw’st  when  raging  Ocean  burst  his  bed, 
Overtopp’d  the  mountains,  and  the  earth  o’er- 
spread ; 

When  the  rash  youth  inflam’d  the  high  abodes, 
Scorch’d  up  the  skies,  and  scar’d  the  deathless  gods. 
When  Nature  ceases,  thou  shalt  still  remain, 

Nor  second  Chaos  bound  thy  endless  reign  ; 
Fate’s  tyrant  laws  thy  happier  lot  shall  brave, 
Baffle  Destruction,  and  elude  the  Grave. 


VERSES 

TO  MRS.  LOWTHER  ON  HER  MARRIAGE. 

FROM  MENAGE. 

The  greatest  swain  that  treads  th’  Arcadian  grove, 
Our  shepherds  envy,  and  our  virgins  love, 

His  charming  nymph,  his  softer  fair  obtains, 

The  bright  Diana  of  our  flowery  plains ; 

He,  ’midst  the  graceful,  of  superior  grace, 

And  she  the  loveliest  of  the  loveliest  race. 


80 


THE  POEMS 


Thy  fruitful  influence  guardian  Juno,  shed, 
And  crown  the  pleasures  of  the  genial  bed  : 

Raise  thence,  their  future  joy,  a smiling  heir, 
Brave  as  the  father,  as  the  mother  fair. 

Well  may’st  thou  shower  thy  choicest  gifts  on 
those 

Who  boldly  rival  thy  most  hated  foes  ; 

The  vigorous  bridegroom  with  Alcides  vies, 

And  the  fair  bride  has  Cytherea’s  eyes. 


TO  A LADY; 

WITH  A PRESENT  OF  FLOWERS. 

The  fragrant  painting  of  our  flowery  fields, 

The  choicest  stores  that  youthful  summer  yields, 
Strephon  to  fair  Elisa  hath  convey’d, 

The  sweetest  garland  to  the  sweetest  maid. 

O cheer  the  flowers,  my  fair,  and  let  them  rest 
On  the  Elysium  of  thy  snowy  breast, 

And  there  regale  the  smell,  and  charm  the  view, 
With  richer  odours,  and  a lovelier  hue. 

Learn  hence,  nor  fear  a flatterer  in  the  flower, 
Thy  form  divine,  and  beauty’s  matchless  power  : 
Faint,  near  thy  cheeks,  the  bright  carnation  glows, 
And  thy  ripe  lips  outblush  the  opening  rose : 


OF  TICKELL. 


81 


The  lily’s  snow  betrays  less  pure  a light, 

Lost  in  thy  bosom’s  more  unsullied  white ; 

And  wreaths  of  jasmine  shed  perfumes,  beneath 
Th’  ambrosial  incense  of  thy  balmy  breath. 

Ten  thousand  beauties  grace  the  rival  pair, 
How  fair  the  chaplet,  and  the  nymph  how  fair ! 
But  ah ! too  soon  these  fleeting  charms  decay, 
The  fading  lustre  of  one  hastening  day. 

This  night  shall  see  the  gaudy  wreath  decline, 
The  roses  wither,  and  the  lilies  pine. 

The  garland’s  fate  to  thine  shall  be  apply’d, 
And  what  advance  thy  form,  shall  check  thy 
pride  : 

Be  wise,  my  fair,  the  present  hour  improve, 

Let  joy  be  now,  and  now  a waste  of  love  ; 

Each  drooping  bloom  shall  plead  thy  just  excuse, 
And  that  which  show’d  thy  beauty,  show  its  use. 


ON  A LADY’S  PICTURE: 

TO  GILFRED  LAWSON,  ESQ. 

As  Damon  Chloe’s  painted  form  survey’d, 

He  sigh’d,  and  languish’d  for  the  jilting  shade  : 
For  Cupid  taught  the  artist  hand  its  grace, 
And  Venus  wanton’d  in  the  mimic  face. 

6 


82 


THE  POEMS 


Now  he  laments  a look  so  falsely  fair, 

And  almost  damns,  what  yet  resembles  her ; 

Now  he  devours  it,  with  his  longing  eyes  ; 

Now  sated,  from  the  lovely  phantom  flies, 

Yet  burns  to  look  again,  yet  looks  again,  and  dies. 
Her  ivory  neck  his  lips  presume  to  kiss, 

And  his  bold  hands  the  swelling  bosom  press ; 
The  swain  drinks  in  deep  draughts  of  vain  desire. 
Melts  without  heat,  and  burns  in  fancy’d  fire. 

Strange  power  of  paint ! thou  nice  creator  art ! 
What  love  inspires,  may  life  itself  impart. 

Struck  with  like  wounds,  of  old,  Pygmalion  pray’d, 
And  hugg’d  to  life  his  artificial  maid  ; 

Clasp,  new  Pygmalion,  clasp  the  seeming  charms. 
Perhaps  ev’n  now  th’  enlivening  image  warms, 
Destin’d  to  crown  thy  joys,  and  revel  in  thy 
arms : 

Thy  arms,  which  shall  with  fire  so  fierce  invade, 
That  she  at  once  shall  be,  and  cease  to  be  a maid. 


OF  TICKELL. 


83 


PART  OF  THE  FOURTH  BOOK  OF  LUCAN. 

Caesar,  having  resolved  to  give  battle  to  Petreius  and  Afra- 
nius,  Pompey’s  lieutenants  in  Spain,  encamped  near  the 
enemy  in  the  same  field.  The  behaviour  of  their  soldiers, 
at  their  seeing  and  knowing  one  another,  is  the  subject  of 
the  following  verses. 

Their  ancient  friends,  as  now  they  nearer  drew, 
Prepar’d  for  fight  the  wondering  soldiers  knew ; 
Brother  with  brother,  in  unnatural  strife, 

And  the  son  arm’d  against  the  father’s  life  : 

Curst  civil  war ! then  conscience  first  was  felt, 
And  the  tough  veteran’s  heart  began  to  melt. 
Fix’d  in  dumb  sorrow  all  at  once  they  stand, 
Then  wave,  a pledge  of  peace,  the  guiltless  hand ; 
To  vent  ten  thousand  struggling  passions  move, 
The  stings  of  nature,  and  the  pangs  of  love. 

All  order  broken,  wide  their  arms  they  throw, 
And  run,  with  transport,  to  the  longing  foe : 

Here  the  long-lost  acquaintance  neighbours  claim, 
There  an  old  friend  recalls  his  comrade’s  name, 
Youths,  who  in  arts  beneath  one  tutor  grew, 
Rome  rent  in  twain,  and  kindred  hosts  they  view. 

Tears  wet  their  impious  arms,  a fond  relief, 
And  kisses,  broke  by  sobs,  the  words  of  grief ; 


84 


THE  POEMS 


Though  yet  no  blood  was  spilt,  each  anxious  mind 
With  horror  thinks  on  what  his  rage  design’d. 

Ah ! generous  youths,  why  thus,  with  fruitless  pain, 
Beat  ye  those  breasts  ? why  gush  those  eyes  in 
vain  ? 

Why  blame  ye  Heaven,  and  charge  your  guilt  on 
Fate? 

Why  dread  the  tyrant,  whom  yourselves  make 
great  ? 

Bids  he  the  trumpet  sound  ? the  trumpet  slight. 
Bids  he  the  standards  move  ? refuse  the  fight. 
Your  generals,  left  by  you,  will  love  again 
A son  and  father,  when  they’re  private  men. 

Kind  Concord,  heavenly  born  ! whose  blissful 
reign 

Holds  this  vast  globe  in  one  surrounding  chain, 
Whose  laws  the  jarring  elements  control, 

And  knit  each  atom  close  from  pole  to  pole  ; 

Soul  of  the  world ! and  love’s  eternal  spring  ! 
This  lucky  hour,  thy  aid  fair  goddess  bring ! 

This  lucky  hour,  ere  aggravated  crimes 
Heap  guilt  on  guilt,  and  doubly  stain  the  times. 
No  veil  henceforth  for  sin,  for  pardon  none ; 

They  know  their  duty,  now  their  friends  are  known. 
Vain  wish ! from  blood  short  must  the  respite  be, 
New  crimes,  by  love  inhanc’d,  this  night  shall  see  : 
Such  is  the  will  of  Fate,  and  such  the  hard  decree. 
’Twas  peace.  From  either  camp,  now  void  of 
fear 

The  soldiers  mingling  cheerful  feasts  prepare : 


OF  TICKELL. 


85 


On  the  green  sod  the  friendly  bowls  were  crown’d, 
And  hasty  banquets  pil’d  upon  the  ground : 
Around  the  fire  they  talk  ; one  shows  his  scars, 
One  tells  what  chance  first  led  him  to  the  wars  ! 
Their  stories  o’er  the  tedious  night  prevail, 

And  the  mute  circle  listens  to  the  tale,  [hate. 
They  own  they  fought,  but  swear  they  ne’er  could 
Deny  their  guilt,  and  lay  the  blame  on  Fate  ; 
Their  love  revives,  to  make-  them  guiltier  grow, 
A short-liv’d  blessing,  but  to  heighten  woe. 

When  to  Petreius  first  the  news  was  told, 

The  jealous  general  thought  his  legions  sold. 
Swift  with  the  guards,  his  headstrong  fury  drew, 
From  out  his  camp  he  drives  the  hostile  crew ; 
Cuts  clasping  friends  asunder  with  his  sword, 
And  stains  with  blood  each  hospitable  board. 
Then  thus  his  wrath  breaks  out,  “ O ! lost  to 
fame  ! 

Oh ! false  to  Pompey,  and  the  Roman  name  ! 
Can  ye  not  conquer,  ye  degenerate  bands  ? 

Oh  ! die  at  least ; ’tis  all  that  Rome  demands. 
What ! will  ye  own,  while  ye  can  wield  the  sword, 
A rebel  standard,  and  usurping  lord  ? 

Shall  he  be  sued  to  take  you  into  place 
Amongst  his  slaves,  and  grant  you  equal  grace  ? 
What?  shall  my  life  be  begg’d?  inglorious 
thought  ? 

And  life  abhorr’d,  on  such  conditions  bought ! 
The  toils  we  bear,  my  friends,  are  not  for  life, 
Too  mean  a prize  in  such  a dreadful  strife ; 


86 


THE  POEMS 


But  peace  would  lead  to  servitude  and  shame, 

A fair  amusement,  and  a specious  name. 

Never  had  man  explor’d  the  iron  ore, 

Mark’d  out  the  trench,  or  rais’d  the  lofty  tower, 
Ne’er  had  the  steed  in  harness  sought  the  plain, 
Or  fleets  encounter’d  on  th’  unstable  main ; 

Were  life,  were  breath,  with  fame  to  be  compar’d 
Or  peace  to  glorious  liberty  preferr’d. 

By  guilty  oaths  the  hostile  army  bound, 

Holds  fast  its  impious  faith,  and  stands  its  ground; 
Are  you  perfidious,  who  espouse  the  laws, 

And  traitors  only  in  a righteous  cause  ? 

Oh  shame  ! in  vain  through  nations  far  and 
wide, 

Thou  call’st  the  crowding  monarchs  to  thy  side, 
Fall’n  Pompey  ! while  thy  legions  here  betray 
Thy  cheap-bought  life,  and  treat  thy  fame  away.” 

He  ended  fierce.  The  soldier’s  rage  returns, 
His  blood  flies  upward,  and  his  bosom  burns. 

So,  haply  tam’d,  the  tiger  bears  his  bands, 

Less  grimly  growls,  and  licks  his  keeper’s  hands ; 
But  if  by  chance  he  tastes  forbidden  gore, 

He  yells  amain,  and  makes  his  dungeon  roar. 

He  glares,  he  foams,  he  aims  a desperate  bound, 
And  his  pale  master  flies  the  dangerous  ground. 
Now  deeds  are  done,  which  man  might  charge 
aright 

On  stubborn  Fate,  or  undiscerning  Night, 

Had  not  their  guilt  the  lawless  soldiers  known, 
And  made  the  whole  malignity  their  own. 


OF  TICKELL. 


87 


The  beds,  the  plenteous  tables,  float  with  gore, 
And  breasts  are  stabb’d,  that  were  embrac’d 
before : 

Pity  awhile  their  hands  from  slaughter  kept ; 
Inward  they  groan’d,  and,  as  they  drew,  they 
wept ; 

But  every  blow  their  wavering  rage  assures, 

In  murder  hardens,  and  to  blood  inures. 

Crowds  charge  on  crowds,  nor  friends  their  friends 
descry, 

But  sires  by  sons,  and  sons  by  fathers  die. 

Black,  monstrous  rage  ! each,  with  victorious  cries, 
Drags  his  slain  friend  before  the  general’s  eyes, 
Exults  in  guilt,  that  throws  the  only  shame 
On  Pompey’s  cause,  and  blots  the  Eoman  name. 


88 


THE  POEMS 


THE  FIRST  BOOK  OF  HOMER’S  ILIAD. 

THE  DEDICATION. 

When  I first  entered  upon  this  translation,  I was 
ambitious  of  dedicating  it  to  the  Earl  of  Halifax  ; 
but  being  prevented  from  doing  myself  that  honour, 
by  the  unspeakable  loss  which  our  country  hath 
sustained  in  the  death  of  that  extraordinary  person, 
I hope  I shall  not  be  blamed  for  presuming  to 
make  a dedication  of  it  to  his  memory.  The 
greatness  of  his  name  will  justify  a practice  alto- 
gether uncommon,  and  may  gain  favour  towards 
a work,  which  (if  it  had  deserved  his  patronage) 
is  perhaps  the  only  ope  inscribed  to  his  lordship, 
that  will  escape  being  rewarded  by  him. 

I might  have  one  advantage  from  such  a dedi- 
cation, that  nothing  I could  say  in  it  would  be 
suspected  of  flattery.  Besides  that  the  world 
would  take  a pleasure  in  hearing  those  things  said 
of  this  great  man,  now  he  is  dead,  which  he  him- 
self would  have  been  offended  at  when  living. 
But  though  I am  sensible,  so  amiable  and  exalted 
a character  would  be  very  acceptable  to  the  public, 
were  I able  to  draw  it  in  its  full  extent ; I should 


OF  TICKELL. 


89 


be  censured,  very  deservedly,  should  I venture 
upon  an  undertaking,  to  which  I am  by  no  means 
equal. 

His  consummate  knowledge  in  all  kinds  of  busi- 
ness, his  winning  eloquence  in  public  assemblies, 
his  active  zeal  for  the  good  of  his  country,  and  the 
share  he  had  in  conveying  the  supreme  power  to 
an  illustrious  family  famous  for  being  friends  to 
mankind,  are  subjects  easy  to  be  enlarged  upon, 
but  incapable  of  being  exhausted.  The  nature 
of  the  following  performance  more  directly  leads 
me  to  lament  the  misfortune,  which  hath  befallen 
the  learned  wTorld,  by  the  death  of  so  generous  and 
universal  a patron. 

He  rested  not  in  a barren  admiration  of  the 
polite  arts,  wherein  he  himself  was  so  great  a mas- 
ter ; but  was  acted  by  that  humanity  they  natur- 
ally inspire : which  gave  rise  to  many  excellent 
writers,  who  have  cast  a light  upon  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  and  will  distinguish  it  to  posterity. 
It  is  well  known,  that  very  few  celebrated  pieces 
have  been  published  for  several  years,  but  what 
were  either  promoted  by  his  encouragement,  or 
supported  by  his  approbation,  or  recompensed  by 
his  bounty.  And  if  the  succession  of  men,  who 
excel  in  most  of  the  refined  arts,  should  not  con- 
tinue ; though  some  may  impute  it  to  a decay  of 
genius  in  our  countrymen ; those  who  are  unac- 
quainted wTith  his  lordship’s  character,  will  know 
more  justly  how  to  account  for  it. 


90 


THE  POEMS 


The  cause  of  liberty  will  receive  no  small  advan- 
tage in  future  times,  when  it  shall  be  observed 
that  the  Earl  of  Halifax  was  one  of  the  patriots 
who  were  at  the  head  of  it ; and  that  most  of  those 
who  wrere  eminent  in  the  several  parts  of  polite 
or  useful  learning,  were  by  his  influence  and  ex- 
ample engaged  in  the  same  interest. 

I hope,  therefore,  the  public  will  excuse  my 
ambition  for  thus  intruding  into  the  number  of 
those  applauded  men  who  have  paid  him  this  kind 
of  homage,  especially  since  I am  also  prompted 
to  it  by  gratitude,  for  the  protection  with  which 
he  had  begun  to  honour  me  ; and  do  it  at  a time 
when  he  cannot  suffer  by  the  importunity  of  my 
acknowledgments. 


OF  TICKELL. 


91 


THE  FIRST  BOOK  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

TO  THE  HEADER. 


I must  inform  the  reader,  that  when  I began  this  first  book, 
I had  some  thoughts  of  translating  the  whole  Iliad ; but  had 
the  pleasure  of  being  diverted  from  that  design,  by  finding 
the  work  was  fallen  into  a much  abler  hand.  I would  not 
therefore  be  thought  to  have  any  other  view  in  publishing 
this  small  specimen  of  Homer’s  Iliad,  than  to  bespeak,  if 
possible,  the  favour  of  the  public  to  a translation  of  Homer’s 
Odysseis,  wherein  I have  already  made  some  progress. 


Achilles’  fatal  wrath,  whence  discord  rose, 

That  brought  the  sons  of  Greece  unnumber’d  woes, 
O goddess,  sing.  Full  many  a hero’s  ghost 
Was  driven  untimely  to  th’  infernal  coast, 

While  in  promiscuous  heaps  their  bodies  lay, 

A feast  for  dogs,  and  every  bird  of  prey. 

So  did  the  sire  of  gods  and  men  fulfil 
His  steadfast  purpose,  and  almighty  will ; 

What  time  the  haughty  chiefs  their  jars  begun, 
Atrides,  king  of  men,  and  Peleus’  godlike  son. 

What  god  in  strife  the  princeg  did  engage  ? 
Apollo  burning  with  vindictive  rage 


92 


THE  POEMS 


Against  the  scornful  king,  whose  impious  pride 
His  priest  dishonour’d,  and  his  power  defy’d. 
Hence  swift  contagion,  by  the  god’s  commands, 
Swept  thro’  the  camp,  and  thinn’d  the  Grecian 
hands. 

For,  wealth  immense  the  holy  Chryses  bore, 
(His  daughter’s  ransom)  to  the  tented  shore : 

His  sceptre  stretching  forth,  the  golden  rod, 

Hung  round  with  hallow’d  garlands  of  his  god, 

Of  all  the  host,  of  every  princely  chief, 

But  first  of  Atreus’  sons  he  begg’d  relief : 
u Great  Atreus’  sons  and  warlike  Greeks 
attend. 

So  may  th’  immortal  gods  your  cause  befriend, 

So  may  you  Priam’s  lofty  bulwarks  burn, 

And  rich  in  gather’d  spoils  to  Greece  return, 

As  for  these  gifts  my  daughter  you  bestow, 

And  reverence  due  to  great  Apollo  show, 

Jove’s  favourite  offspring,  terrible  in  war, 

Who  sends  his  shafts  unerring  from  afar.” 

Throughout  the  host  consenting  murmurs  rise, 
The  priest  to  reverence,  and  give  back  the  prize , 
When  the  great  king,  incens’d,  his  silence  broke 
In  words  reproachful,  and  thus  sternly  spoke : 

“ Hence,  dotard,  from  my  sight.  Nor  ever  more 
Approach,  I warn  thee,  this  forbidden  shore; 

Lest  thou  stretch  forth,  my  fury  to  restrain, 

The  wreaths  and  sceptre  of  thy  god,  in  vain. 

The  captive  maid  I never  will  resign, 

Till  age  o’ertakes  her,  I have  vow’d  her  mine. 


OF  TICKELL. 


93 


To  distant  Argos  shall  the  fair  be  led : 

She  shall ; to  ply  the  loom,  and  grace  my  bed. 
Begone,  ere  evil  intercept  thy  way. 

Hence  on  thy  life  : nor  urge  me  by  thy  stay.” 

He  ended  frowning.  Speechless  and  dismay’d, 
The  aged  sire  his  stern  command  obey’d. 

Silent  he  pass’d,  amid  the  deafening  roar 
Of  tumbling  billows,  on  the  lonely  shore  ; 

Far  from  the  camp  he  pass’d:  then  suppliant 
stood ; 

And  thus  the  hoary  priest  invok’d  his  god : 

“ Dread  warrior  with  the  silver  bow,  give  ear. 
Patron  of  Chrysa  and  of  Cilia,  hear. 

To  thee  the  guard  of  Tenedos  belongs  ; 
Propitious  Smintheus  ! 0 ! redress  my  wrongs. 
If  e’er  within  thy  fane,  with  wreaths  adorn’d, 

The  fat  of  bulls  and  well-fed  goats  I burn’d, 

O ! hear  my  prayer.  Let  Greece  thy  fury  know, 
And  with  thy  shafts  avenge  thy  servant’s  woe.” 

Apollo  heard  his  injur’d  suppliant’s  cry. 

Down  rush’d  the  vengeful  warrior  from  the  sky ; 
Across  his  breast  the  glittering  bow  he  slung, 
And  at  his  back  the  well-stor’d  quiver  hung : 

(His  arrows  rattled,  as  he  urg’d  his  flight.) 

In  clouds  he  flew,  conceal’d  from  mortal  sight ; 
Then  took  his  stand,  the  well-aim’d  shaft  to  throw  : 
Fierce  sprung  the  string,  and  twang’d  the  silver 
bow. 

The  dogs  and  mules  his  first  keen  arrow  slew  ; 
Amid  the  ranks  the  next  more  fatal  flew, 


94 


THE  POEMS 


A deathful  dart.  The  funeral  piles  around 
For  ever  blaz’d  on  the  devoted  ground. 

Nine  days  entire  he  vex’d  th’  embattled  host, 
The  tenth,  Achilles  through  the  winding  coast 
Summon’d  a council,  by  the  queen’s  command 
Who  wields  Heaven’s  sceptre  in  her  snowy  hand  : 
She  mourn’d  her  favourite  Greeks,  who  now 
enclose 

The  hero,  swiftly  speaking  as  he  rose  : 

“ What  now,  O Atreus’  son,  remains  in  view, 
But  o’er  the  deep  our  wanderings  to  renew, 
Doom’d  to  destruction,  while  our  wasted  powers 
The  sword  and  pestilence  at  once  devours  ? 

Why  haste  we  not  some  prophet’s  skill  to  prove, 
Or  seek  by  dreams  ? (for  dreams  descend  from 
Jove.) 

What  moves  Apollo’s  rage  let  him  explain, 

What  vow  withheld,  what  hecatomb  unslain : 

And  if  the  blood  of  lambs  and  goats  can  pay 
The  price  for  guilt,  and  turn  this  curse  away  ? ” 
Thus  he.  And  next  the  reverend  Calchas 
rose, 

Their  guide  to  Ilion  whom  the  Grecians  chose ; 
The  prince  of  augurs,  whose  enlighten’d  eye 
Could  things  past,  present,  and  to  come,  descry  : 
Such  wisdom  Phoebus  gave.  He  thus  began, 

His  speech  addressing  to  the  godlike  man : 

“Me  then  command’st  thou,  lov’d  of  Jove,  to 
show 

What  moves  the  god  that  bends  the  dreadful  bow? 


OF  TICKELL. 


95 


First  plight  thy  faith  thy  ready  help  to  lend, 

By  words  to  aid  me,  or  by  arms  defend. 

For  I foresee  his  rage,  whose  ample  sway 
The  Argian  powers  and  sceptred  chiefs  obey. 
The  wrath  of  kings  what  subject  can  oppose  ? 
Deep  in  their  breasts  the  smother’d  vengeance 
glows, 

Still  watchful  to  destroy.  Swear,  valiant  youth, 
Swear,  wilt  thou  guard  me,  if  I speak  the  truth  ? ” 
To  this  Achilles  swift  replies : “ Be  bold. 
Disclose  what  Phoebus  tells  thee,  uncontroll’d. 

By  him,  who,  listening  to  thy  powerful  prayer, 
Reveals  the  secret,  I devoutly  swear, 

That,  while  these  eyes  behold  the  light,  no  hand 
Shall  dare  to  wrong  thee  on  this  crowded  strand. 
Not  Atreus’  son : though  now  himself  he  boast 
The  king  of  men,  and  sovereign  of  the  host.” 

Then  boldly  he.  “ Nor  does  the  god  complain 
Of  vows  withheld,  or  hecatombs  unslain. 

Chryseis  to  her  awful  sire  refus’d, 

The  gifts  rejected,  and  the  priest  abus’d, 

Call  down  these  judgments,  and  for  more  they 
call, 

Just  ready  on  th’  exhausted  camp  to  fall ; 

Till  ransom-free  the  damsel  is  bestow’d, 

And  hecatombs  are  sent  to  soothe  the  god, 

To  Chrysa  sent.  Perhaps  Apollo’s  rage 
The  gifts  may  expiate,  and  the  priest  assuage.” 

He  spoke  and  sat.  When,  with  an  angry  frown, 
The  chief  of  kings  upstarted  from  his  throne. 


96 


THE  POEMS 


Disdain  and  vengeance  in  his  bosom  rise, 

Lower  in  liis  brows,  and  sparkle  in  his  eyes : 

Full  at  the  priest  their  fiery  orbs  he  bent, 

And  all  at  once  his  fury  found  a vent. 

“ Augur  of  ills,  (for  never  good  to  me 
Did  that  most  inauspicious  voice  decree) 

For  ever  ready  to  denounce  my  wroes, 

When  Greece  is  punish’d,  I am  still  the  cause ; 
And  now  when  Phoebus  spreads  his  plagues  abroad, 
And  wastes  our  camp,  ’tis  I provoke  the  god, 
Because  my  blooming  captive  I detain, 

And  the  large  ransom  is  produc’d  in  vain. 

Fond  of  the  maid,  my  queen  in  beauty’s  pride, 
Ne’er  charm’d  me  more,  a virgin  and  a bride  ; 
Not  Clytasmnestra  boasts  a nobler  race, 

A sweeter  temper,  or  a lovelier  face, 

In  works  of  female  skill  hath  more  command, 

Or  guides  the  needle  with  a nicer  hand. 

Yet  she  shall  go.  The  fair  our  peace  shall  buy : 
Better  I suffer,  than  my  people  die. 

But  mark  me  well.  See  instantly  prepar’d 
A full  equivalent,  a new  reward. 

Nor  is  it  meet,  while  each  enjoys  his  share, 

Your  chief  should  lose  his  portion  of  the  war : 

In  vain  your  chief ; whilst  the  dear  prize,  I boast, 
Is  wrested  from  me,  and  for  ever  lost.” 

To  whom  the  swift  pursuer  quick  reply’d : 

44  Oh  sunk  in  avarice,  and  swoln  with  pride  ! 

How  shall  the  Greeks,  though  large  of  soul  they  be, 
Collect  their  sever’d  spoils,  a heap  for  thee 


OF  TICKELL. 


97 


To  search  anew,  and  cull  the  choicest  share 
Amid  the  mighty  harvest  of  the  war  ? 

Then  yield  thy  captive  to  the  god  resign’d, 
Assur’d  a tenfold  recompense  to  find, 

When  Jove’s  decree  shall  throw  proud  Ilion  down, 
And  give  to  plunder  the  devoted  town.” 

“ Think  not,”  Atrides  answer’d,  “ though  thou 
shine, 

Graceful  in  beauty,  like  the  powers  divine, 

Think  not,  thy  wiles,  in  specious  words  convey’d, 
From  its  firm  purpose  shall  my  soul  dissuade. 
Must  I alone  bereft  sit  down  with  shame, 

And  thou  insulting  keep  thy  captive  dame  ? 

If,  as  I ask,  the  large-soul’d  Greeks  consent 
Full  recompense  to  give,  I stand  content. 

If  not,  a prize  I shall  myself  decree, 

From  him,  or  him,  or  else  perhaps  from  thee. 
While  the  proud  prince,  despoil’d,  shall  rage  in 
vain. 

But  break  we  here.  The  rest  let  time  explain. 
Launch  now  a well-trimm’d  galley  from  the  shore, 
With  hands  experienc’d  at  the  bending  oar : 
Enclose  the  hecatomb  ; and  then  with  care 
To  the  high  deck  convey  the  captive  fair. 

The  sacred  bark  let  sage  Ulysses  guide, 

Or  Ajax,  or  Idomeneus,  preside  : 

Or  thou,  O mighty  man,  the  chief  shalt  be. 

And  who  more  fit  to  soothe  the  god  than  thee  ? ” 
“ Shameless,  and  poor  of  soul,”  the  prince  replies, 
And  on  the  monarch  casts  his  scornful  eyes, 

7 


98 


THE  POEMS 


“ What  Greek  henceforth  will  march  at  thy  com- 
mand 

In  search  of  danger  on  the  doubtful  strand  ? 

Who  in  the  face  of  day  provoke  the  fight, 

Or  tempt  the  secret  ambush  of  the  night  ? 

Not  I,  be  sure.  Henceforward  I am  free. 

For  ne’er  was  Priam’s  house  a foe  to  me. 

Far  from  their  inroads,  in  my  pastures  feed 
The  lowing  heifer,  and  the  pamper’d  steed, 

On  Phthia’s  hills  our  fruits  securely  grow, 

And  ripen  careless  of  the  distant  foe, 

Between  whose  realms  and  our  Thessalian  shore 
Unnumber’d  mountains  rise,  and  billows  roar. 

For  thine,  and  for  thy  baffled  brother’s  fame, 
Across  those  seas,  disdainful  man,  I came ; 

Yet  insolent ! by  arbitrary  sway 

Thou  talk’st  of  seizing  on  my  rightful  prey, 

The  prize  whose  purchase  toils  and  dangers  cost, 
And  given  by  suffrage  of  the  Grecian  host. 

What  town,  when  sack’d  by  our  victorious  bands, 
But  still  brought  wealth  to  those  rapacious  hands  ? 
To  me,  thus  scorn’d,  contented  dost  thou  yield 
My  share  of  blood  in  the  tumultuous  field ; 

But  still  the  flower  of  all  the  spoil  is  thine  ; 

There  claim’st  thou  most.  Nor  e’er  did  I 
repine. 

Whate’er  was  giv’n  I took,  and  thought  it  best, 
With  slaughter  tir’d,  and  panting  after  rest. 

To  Phthia  now,  for  I shall  fight  no  more, 

My  ships  their  crooked  prows  shall  turn  from  shore. 


OF  TICKELL. 


99 


When  I am  scorn’d,  I think  I well  foresee 
What  spoils  and  pillage  will  be  won  by  thee.” 

“ Hence  ! ” cry’d  the  monarch,  “ hence  ! without 
delay.” 

Think  not,  vain  man  ! my  voice  shall  urge  thy 
stay, 

Others  thou  leav’st,  to  the  great  cause  inclin’d, 

A league  of  kings  thou  leav’st,  and  Jove  behind. 
Of  all  the  chiefs  dost  thou  oppose  me  most : 
Outrage  and  uproar  are  thy  only  boast. 

Discord  and  jars  thy  joy.  But  learn  to  know, 

If  thou  art  strong,  ’tis  Jove  hath  made  thee  so. 
Go,  at  thy  pleasure.  None  will  stop  thy  way. 
Go,  bid  thy  base-born  Myrmidons  obey. 

Thou,  nor  thy  rage,  shall  my  resolves  subdue ; 

I fix  my  purpose,  and  my  threats  renew. 

Since  ’tis  decreed  I must  the  maid  restore, 

A ship  shall  waft  her  to  th’  offended  power ; 

But  fair  Briseis,  thy  allotted  prize, 

Myself  will  seize,  and  seize  before  thy  eyes  : 

That  thou  and  each  audacious  man  may  see, 

How  vain  the  rash  attempt  to  cope  with  me.” 

Stung  to  the  soul,  tumultuous  thoughts  began 
This  way  and  that  to  rend  the  godlike  man. 

To  force  a passage  with  his  falchion  drawn, 

And  hurl  th’  imperial  boaster  from  his  throne, 

He  now  resolves  : and  now  resolves  again 
To  quell  his  fury,  and  his  arm  restrain. 

While  thus  by  turns  his  rage  and  reason  sway’d, 
And  half  unsheath’d  he  held  the  glittering  blade  ; 


100 


THE  POEMS 


That  moment,  Juno,  whose  impartial  eye 
Watch’d  o’er  them  both,  sent  Pallas  from  the  sky : 
She  flew,  and  caught  his  yellow  hair  behind, 

(To  him  alone  the  radiant  goddess  shin’d.) 
Sudden  he  turn’d,  and  started  with  surprise ; 
Page  and  revenge  flash’d  dreadful  in  his  eyes. 
Then  thus  with  hasty  words  : “ O ! heavenly- 
born, 

Com’st  thou  to  see  proud  Agamemnon’s  scorn  ? 
But  thou  shalt  see  (my  sword  shall  make  it  good) 
This  glutted  sand  smoke  with  the  tyrant’s  blood.” 

“ To  soothe  thy  soul,”  the  blue-ey’d  maid  replies, 
u (If  thou  obey  my  voice)  I left  the  skies. 
Heaven’s  queen,  who  favours  both,  gave  this  com- 
mand ! 

Suppress  thy  wrath,  and  stay  thy  vengeful  hand. 
Be  all  thy  rage  in  tauntful  words  exprest ; 

But  guiltless  let  the  thirsty  falchion  rest, 

Mark  what  I speak.  An  hour  is  on  its  way, 
When  gifts  tenfold  for  this  affront  shall  pay. 
Suppress  thy  wrath  ; and  Heaven  and  me  obey.” 

Then  he  : “ I yield  ; though  with  reluctant  mind. 
Who  yields  to  Heaven  shall  Heaven  propitious 
find.” 

The  silver  hilt  close-grasping,  at  the  word, 

Deep  in  the  sheath  he  plung’d  his  mighty  sword. 
The  goddess,  turning,  darted  from  his  sight, 

And  reach’d  Olympus  in  a moment’s  flight. 

But  fierce  Achilles,  in  a thundering  tone, 
Throws  out  his  wrath,  and  goes  impetuous  on : 


OF  TICKELL. 


101 


“ Valiant  with  wine,  and  furious  from  the 
bowl ! 

Thou  fierce-look’d  talker  with  a coward  soul ! 
War’s  glorious  peril  ever  slow  to  share  : 

Aloof  thou  view’st  the  field ; for  Death  is  there, 
’Tis  greater  far  this  peaceful  camp  to  sway, 

And  peel  the  Greeks,  at  will,  who  disobey  : 

A tyrant  lord  o’er  slaves  to  earth  debas’d ; 

For,  had  they  souls,  this  outrage  were  thy  last. 
But,  thou,  my  fix’d,  my  final  purpose  hear. 

By  this  dread  sceptre  solemnly  I swear : 

By  this  (which,  once  from  out  the  forest  torn, 
Nor  leaf  nor  shade  shall  ever  more  adorn ; 

Which  never  more  its  verdure  must  renew, 
Lopp’d  from  the  vital  stem,  whence  first  it  grew  ! 
But  given  by  Jove  the  sons  of  men  to  awe, 

Now  sways  the  nations,  and  confirms  the  law) 

A day  shall  come,  when  for  this  hour’s  disdain 
The  Greeks  shall  wish  for  me,  and  wish  in 
vain ; 

Nor  thou,  though  griev’d,  the  wanted  aid  afford, 
When  heaps  on  heaps  shall  fall  by  Hector’s 
sword : 

Too  late  with  anguish  shall  thy  heart  be  torn, 
That  the  first  Greek  was  made  the  public 
scorn.” 

He  said.  And,  mounting  with  a furious  bound, 
He  dash’d  his  studded  sceptre  on  the  ground  ; 
Then  sat.  Atrides,  eager  to  reply, 

On  the  fierce  champion  glanc’d  a vengeful  eye. 


102 


THE  POEMS 


’Twas  then,  the  madding  monarchs  to  compose, 
The  Pylian  prince,  the  smooth-speech’d  Nestor 
rose. 

His  tongue  dropp’d  honey.  F ull  of  days  was  he  ; 
Two  ages  past,  he  liv’d  the  third  to  see : 

And  his  first  race  of  subjects  long  decay’d, 

O’er  their  sons’  sons  a peaceful  sceptre  sway’d. 

“Alas  for  Greece  ! ” he  cries,  “ and  with  what  joy 
Shall  Priam  hear,  and  every  son  of  Troy ! 

That  you,  the  first  in  wisdom  as  in  wars, 

Waste  your  great  souls  in  poor  ignoble  jars  ! 

Go  to  ! you  both  are  young.  Yet  oft  rever’d 
Greater  than  you  have  the  wise  Nestor  heard. 
Their  equals  never  shall  these  eyes  behold : 
Cameus  the  just,  Pirithous  the  bold, 

Exadius,  Dryas,  born  to  high  command, 
Shepherds  of  men,  and  rulers  of  the  land, 
Theseus  unrivall’d  in  his  sire’s  abodes, 

And  mighty  Polypheme,  a match  for  gods. 

They,  greatest  names  that  ancient  story  knows, 
In  mortal  conflict  met  as  dreadful  foes  : 

Fearless  thro’  rocks  and  wilds  their  prey  pursued. 
And  the  huge  double  Centaur  race  subdued. 
With  them  my  early  youth  was  pleas’d  to  roam 
Through  regions,  far  from  my  sweet  native  home ; 
They  call’d  me  to  the  wars.  No  living  hand 
Could  match  their  valour,  or  their  strength  with- 
stand ; 

Yet  wont  they  oft  my  sage  advice  to  hear. 

Then  listen  both,  with  an  attentive  ear. 


OF  TICKELL. 


103 


Seize  not  tliou,  king  of  men,  the  beauteous  slave, 
Th’  allotted  prize  the  Grecian  voices  gave. 

Nor  thou,  Pelides,  in  a threatening  tone 
Urge  him  to  wrath,  who  fills  that  sacred  throne, 
The  king  of  forty  kings,  and  honour’d  more 
By  mighty  Jove,  than  e’er  was  king  before. 
Brave  though  thou  art,  and  of  a race  divine, 

Thou  must  obey  a power  more  great  than  thine. 
And  thou,  O king,  forbear.  Myself  will  sue 
Great  Thetis’  son  his  vengeance  to  subdue : 

Great  Thetis’  valiant  son,  our  country’s  boast, 
The  shield  and  bulwark  of  the  Grecian  host.” 

“ Wise7are  thy  words,  0 sire,”  the  king  began, 
“ But  what  can  satiate  this  aspiring  man  ? 
Unbounded  power  he  claims  o’er  human-kind, 
And  hopes  for  slaves,  I trust  he  ne’er  shall  find. 
Shall  we,  because  the  gods  have  form’d  him  strong, 
Bear  the  lewd  language  of  his  lawless  tongue  ! ” 

“ If  aw’d  by  thee,  the  Greeks  might  well  despise 
My  name,”  the  prince,  precipitate,  replies, 

“ In  vain  thou  nodd’st  from  thy  imperial  throne. 
Thy  vassals  seek  elsewhere  ; for  I am  none. 

But  break  we  here.  The  fair,  though  justly  mine, 
With  sword  undrawn  I purpose  to  resign. 

On  aught  beside,  I once  for  all  command, 

Lay  not,  I charge  thee,  thy  presumptuous  hand. 
Come  not  within  my  reach,  nor  dare  advance. 

Or  thy  heart’s  blood  shall  reek  upon  my  lance.” 

Thus  both  in  foul  debate  prolong’d  the  day. 
The  council  broke,  each  takes  his  separate  way. 


104 


THE  POEMS 


Achilles  seeks  his  tent  with  restless  mind ; 
Patroclus  and  his  train  move  slow  behind. 

Meantime,  a bark  was  haul’d  along  the  sand, 
Twice  ten  selected  Greeks,  a brawny  band, 

Tug  the  tough  oars,  at  the  great  king’s  command. 
The  gifts,  the  hecatomb,  the  captive  fair, 

Are  all  intrusted  to  Ulysses’  care.  [flight, 

They  mount  the  deck.  The  vessel  takes  its 
Bounds  o’er  the  surge,  and  lessens  to  the  sight. 

Next  he  ordains  along  the  winding  coast 
By  hallow’d  rites  to  purify  the  host. 

A herd  of  chosen  victims  they  provide, 

And  cast  their  offals  on  the  briny  tide. 

Fat  bulls  and  goats  to  great  Apollo  die. 

In  clouds  the  savory  steam  ascends  the  sky. 

The  Greeks  to  Heaven  their  solemn  vows  ad- 
drest ; 

But  dire  revenge  roll’d  in  the  monarch’s  breast. 
Obsequious  at  his  call  two  heralds  stand : 

To  them  in  frowns  he  gives  this  harsh  command. 
“ Ye  heralds,  to  Achilles’  tent  repair ; 

Then  swift  the  female  slave  Briseis  bear. 

With  arms,  if  disobey’d,  myself  will  come. 

Bid  him  resign  her,  or  he  tempts  his  doom.” 

The  heralds,  though  unwillingly,  obey. 

Along  the  sea-beat  shore  they  speed  their  way : 
And,  now  the  Myrmidonian  quarter  past, 

At  his  tent-door  they  find  the  hero  plac’d. 
Disturb’d  the  solemn  messengers  he  saw  ; 

They  too  stood  silent,  with  respectful  awe, 


OF  TICKELL. 


105 


Before  the  royal  youth,  they  neither  spoke. 

He  guess’d  their  message,  and  the  silence  broke  : 

“ Ye  ministers  of  gods  and  men,  draw  near, 
Not  you,  but  him  whose  heralds  ye  appear, 
Robb’d  of  my  right  I blame.  Patroclus,  bring 
The  damsel  forth  for  this  disdainful  king. 

But  ye,  my  wrongs,  0 heralds,  bear  in  mind, 

And  clear  me  to  the  gods  and  all  mankind, 

Ev’n  to  your  thoughtless  king  ; if  ever  more 
My  aid  be  wanted  on  the  hostile  shore. 
Thoughtless  he  is,  nor  knows  his  certain  doom, 
Blind  to  the  past,  nor  sees  the  woes  to  come, 

His  best  defence  thus  rashly  to  forego, 

And  leave  a naked  army  to  the  foe.” 

He  ceas’d.  Patroclus  his  dear  friend  obey’d, 
And  usher’d  in  the  lovely  weeping  maid. 

Sore  sigh’d  she,  as  the  heralds  took  her  hand, 
And  oft  look’d  back,  slow-moving  o’er  the  strand. 

The  widow’d  hero,  when  the  fair  was  gone, 

Far  from  his  friends  sat  bath’d  in  tears  alone. 

On  the  cold  beach  he  sat,  and  fix’d  his  eyes 
Where  black  with  storms  the  curling  billows  rise, 
And  as  the  sea  wide-rolling  he  survey’d, 

With  outstretch’d  arms  to  his  fond  mother  pray’d : 

“ Since  to  short  life  thy  hapless  son  was  born, 
Great  Jove  stands  bound  by  promise  to  adorn 
His  stinted  course  with  an  immortal  name. 

Is  this  the  great  amends  ? the  promis’d  fame  ? 
The  son  of  Atreus,  proud  of  lawless  sway, 
Demands,  possesses,  and  enjoys  my  prey.” 


106 


THE  POEMS 


Near  her  old  sire  enthron’d,  she  heard  him  weep 
From  the  low  silent  caverns  of  the  deep  : 

Then  in  a morning  mist  her  head  she  rears, 

Sits  by  her  son,  and  mingles  tears  with  tears  ; 
Close  grasps  her  darling’s  hand.  “ My  son,”  she 
cries, 

“ Why  heaves  thy  heart  ? and  why  o’erflow  thy 
eyes  ? 

O tell  me,  tell  thy  mother  all  thy  care, 

That  both  may  know  it,  and  that  both  may  share.” 
“ Oh  ! goddess ! ” cry’d  he,  with  an  inward 
groan, 

“ Thou  know’st  it  all : to  thee  are  all  things 
known. 

Eetian  Thebes  we  sack’d,  their  ransack’d  towers, 
The  plunder  of  a people,  all  was  ours. 

We  stood  agreed  the  booty  to  divide. 

Cliryse’is,  rosy-cheek’d  and  glossy-ey’d, 

F ell  to  the  king ; but  holy  Chryses  bore 
Vast  gifts  of  ransom,  to  the  tented  shore : 

His  sceptre  stretching  forth  (the  golden  rod 
Hung  round  with  hallow’d  garlands  of  his  god) 
Of  all  the  host,  of  every  princely  chief, 

But  first  of  Atreus’  sons,  he  begg’d  relief. 
Throughout  the  host  consenting  murmurs  ran, 

To  yield  her  to  the  venerable  man  ; 

But  the  harsh  king  deny’d  to  do  him  right, 

And  drove  the  trembling  prophet  from  his  sight. 
Apollo  heard  his  injur’d  suppliant’s  cry, 

And  dealt  his  arrows  through  th’  infected  sky ; 


OF  TICKELL. 


107 


The  swift  contagion,  sent  by  his  commands, 
Swept  thro’  the  camp,  and  thinn’d  the  Grecian 
bands. 

The  guilty  cause  a sacred  augur  show’d, 

And  I first  mov’d  to  mitigate  the  god. 

At  this  the  tyrant  storm’d,  and  vengeance  vow’d ; 
And  now  too  soon  hath  made  his  threatnings  good. 
Chryseis  first  with  gifts  to  Chrysa  sent, 

His  heralds  came  this  moment  to  my  tent, 

And  bore  Briseis  thence,  my  beauteous  slave, 

Th’  alloted  prize,  which  the  leagu’d  Grecians  gave. 
Thou  goddess,  then,  and  thou,  I know,  hast  power, 
For  thine  own  son  the  might  of  Jove  implore. 

Oft  in  my  father’s  house  I’ve  heard  thee  tell, 
When  sudden  fears  on  Heaven’s  great  monarch 
fell, 

Thy  aid  the  rebel  deities  o’ercame, 

And  sav’d  the  mighty  Thunderer  from  shame. 
Pallas,  and  Neptune,  and  great  Juno,  bound 
The  sire  in  chains,  and  liemm’d  their  sovereign 
round. 

Thy  voice,  O goddess,  broke  their  idle  bands, 
And  call’d  the  giant  of  the  hundred  hands, 

The  prodigy,  whom  Heaven  and  Earth  revere, 
Briareus  nam’d  above,  AEgeon  here. 

His  father  Neptune  he  in  strength  surpass’d ; 

At  Jove’s  right  hand  his  hideous  form  he  plac’d, 
Proud  of  his  might.  The  gods  with  secret 
dread, 

Beheld  the  huge  enormous  shape  and  fled. 


108 


THE  POEMS 


Remind  him  then : for  well  thou  know’st  the  art : 
Go,  clasp  his  knees,  and  melt  his  mighty  heart. 
Let  the  driven  Argians,  hunted  o’er  the  plain, 
Seek  the  last  verge  of  this  tempestuous  main : 
There  let  them  perish,  void  of  all  relief, 

My  wrongs  remember,  and  enjoy  their  chief. 

Too  late  with  anguish  shall  his  heart  be  torn, 
That  the  first  Greek  was  made  the  public  scorn.” 

Then  she  (with  tears  her  azure  eyes  ran  o’er :) 
“ Why  bore  I thee ! or  nourish’d,  when  I bore ! 
Blest,  if  within  thy  tent,  and  free  from  strife, 
Thou  miglit’st  possess  thy  poor  remains  of  life. 
Thy  death  approaching  now  the  Fates  foreshow  ; 
Short  is  thy  destin’d  term,  and  full  of  woe. 
Ill-fated  thou  ! and  oh  unhappy  I ! 

But  hence  to  the  celestial  courts  I fly, 

Where,  hid  in  snow,  to  Heaven  Olympus  swells, 
And  Jove,  rejoicing  in  his  thunder,  dwells. 
Meantime,  my  son,  indulge  thy  just  disdain : 

Vent  all  thy  rage,  and  shun  the  hostile  plain, 

Till  Jove  returns.  Last  night  my  waves  he 
cross’d, 

And  sought  the  distant  Ethiopian  coast : 

Along  the  skies  his  radiant  course  he  steer’d, 
Behind  him  all  the  train  of  gods  appear’d, 

A bright  procession.  To  the  holy  feast 
Of  blameless  men  he  goes  a grateful  guest. 

To  heaven  he  comes,  when  twice  six  days  are 
o’er  ! 

Then  shall  his  voice  the  sire  of  gods  implore, 


OF  TICKELL. 


109 


Then  to  my  lofty  mansion  will  I pass, 

Founded  on  rocks  of  ever-during  brass  : 

There  will  I clasp  his  knees  with  wonted  art, 

Nor  doubt,  my  son,  but  I shall  melt  his  heart.” 

She  ceas’d : and  left  him  lost  in  doubtful  care, 
And  bent  on  vengeance  for  the  ravish’d  fair. 

But,  safe  arriv’d  near  Chrysa’s  sacred  strand, 
The  sage  Ulysses  now  advanc’d  to  land. 

Along  the  coast  he  shoots  with  swelling  gales, 
Then  lowers  the  lofty  mast,  and  furls  the  sails ; 
Next  plies  to  port  with  many  a well-tim’d  oar, 
And  drops  his  anchors  near  the  faithful  shore. 
The  bark  now  fix’d  amidst  the  rolling  tide, 
Chryseis  follows  her  experienc’d  guide  : 

The  gifts  to  Phoebus  from  the  Grecian  host, 

A herd  of  bulls  went  bellowing  o’er  the  coast. 

To  the  god’s  fane,  high  looking  o’er  the  land, 

He  led,  and  near  the  altar  took  his  stand, 

Then  gave  her  to  the  joyful  father’s  hand. 

“ All  hail ! Atrides  sets  thy  daughter  free, 

Sends  offerings  to  thy  god,  and  gifts  to  thee. 

But  thou  entreat  the  power,  whose  dreadful  sway 
Afflicts  his  camp,  and  sweeps  his  host  away.” 

He  said,  and  gave  her.  The  fond  father 
smil’d 

With  secret  rapture,  and  embrac’d  his  child. 

The  victims  now  they  range  in  chosen  bands, 
And  offer  gifts  with  unpolluted  hands  : 

When  with  loud  voice,  and  arms  uprear’d  in  air, 
The  hoary  priest  preferr’d  this  powerful  prayer : 


110 


THE  POEMS 


“ Dread  warrior  with  the*  silver  bow,  give  ear, 
Patron  of  Chrysa  and  of  Cilia,  hear. 

About  this  dome  thou  walk’st  thy  constant  round 
Still  have  my  vows  thy  power  propitious  found. 
Rous’d  by  my  prayers  ev’n  now  thy  vengeance 
burns, 

And  smit  by  thee,  the  Grecian  army  mourns. 
Hear  me  once  more ; and  let  the  suppliant  foe 
Avert  thy  wrath,  and  slack  thy  dreadful  bow.” 

He  pray’d  ; and  great  Apollo  heard  his  prayer. 
The  suppliants  now  their  votive  rites  prepare : 
Amidst  the  flames  they  cast  the  hallow’d  bread, 
And  heavenward  turn  each  victim’s  destin’d  head : 
Next  slay  the  fatted  bulls,  their  skins  divide, 

And  from  each  carcase  rend  the  smoking  hide  ; 
On  every  limb  large  rolls  of  fat  bestow, 

And  chosen  morsels  round  the  offerings  strow  : 
Mysterious  rites.  Then  on  the  fire  divine 
The  great  high  priest  pours  forth  the  ruddy  wine  ; 
Himself  the  offering  burns.  On  either  hand 
A troop  of  youths,  in  decent  order,  stand. 

On  sharpen’d  forks,  obedient  to  the  sire, 

They  turn  the  tasteful  fragments  in  the  fire, 
Adorn  the  feast,  see  every  dish  well-stor’d, 

And  serve  the  plenteous  messes  to  the  board. 
When  now  the  various  feasts  had  cheer’d  their 
souls,  [bowls, 

With  sparkling  wines  they  crown  the  generous 
The  first  libations  to  Apollo  pay, 

And  solemnize  with  sacred  hymns  the  day : 


OF  TICKELL. 


Ill 


His  praise  in  Io  Pasans  loud  they  sing, 

And  soothe  the  rage  of  the  far-shooting  king. 

At  evening,  through  the  shore  dispers’d,  they 
sleep, 

Hush’d  by  the  distant  roarings  of  the  deep. 

When  now,  ascending  from  the  shades  of  night, 
Aurora  glow’d  in  all  her  rosy  light, 

The  daughter  of  the  dawn  : th’  awaken’d  crew 
Back  to  the  Greeks  encamp’d  their  course  renew, 
The  breezes  freshen : for  with  friendly  gales 
Apollo  swell’d  their  wide,  distended,  sails  : 

Cleft  by  the  rapid  prow,  the  waves  divide, 

And  in  hoarse  murmurs  break  on  either  side, 

In  safety  to  the  destined  port  they  pass’d, 

And  fix  their  bark  with  grappling  haulsers  fast ; 
Then  dragg’d  her  farther,  on  the  dry-land  coast, 
Regain’d  their  tents,  and  mingled  in  the  host. 

But  fierce  Achilles,  still  on  vengeance  bent, 
Cherish’d  his  wrath,  and  madden’d  in  his  tent. 
Th’  assembled  chiefs  he  shunn’d  with  high  disdain, 
A band  of  kings : nor  sought  the  hostile  plain  ; 
But  long’d  to  hear  the  distant  troops  engage, 

The  strife  grow  doubtful,  and  the  battle  rage. 
Twelve  days  were  past ; and  now  th’  ethereal 
train, 

Jove  at  their  head,  to  Heaven  return’d  again  : 
When  Thetis,  from  the  deep  prepar’d  to  rise,  [skies. 
Shot  through  a big-swoln  wave,  and  pierc’d  the 
At  early  morn  she  reach’d  the  realms  above, 

The  court  of  gods,  the  residence  of  Jove. 


112 


THE  POEMS 


On  the  top-point  of  high  Olympus,  crown’d 
With  hills  on  hills,  him  far  apart  she  found, 
Above  the  rest.  The  Earth  beneath  display’d 
(A  boundless  prospect)  his  broad  eye  survey’d. 
Her  left  hand  grasp’d  his  knees,  her  right  she 
rear’d, 

And  touch’d  with  blandishment  his  awful  beard  ; 
Then,  suppliant,  with  submissive  voice  implor’d 
Old  Saturn’s  son,  the  god  by  gods  ador’d : 

“ If  e’er,  by  rebel  deities  opprest, 

My  aid  reliev’d  thee,  grant  this  one  request. 

Since  to  short  life  my  hapless  son  was  born, 

Do  thou  with  fame  the  scanty  space  adorn. 
Punish  the  king  of  men,  whose  lawless  sway 
Hath  sham’d  the  youth,  and  seiz’d  his  destin’d  prey. 
Awhile  let  Troy  prevail,  that  Greece  may  grieve. 
And  doubled  honours  to  my  offspring  give.” 

She  said.  The  god  vouchsaf’d  not  to  reply 
(A  deep  suspense  sat  in  his  thoughtful  eye)  : 
Once  more  around  his  knees  the  goddess  clung, 
And  to  soft  accents  form’d  her  artful  tongue  : 

“ Oh  speak.  O grant  me,  or  deny  my  prayer. 
Fear  not  to  speak,  what  I am  doom’d  to  bear ; 
That  I may  know,  if  thou  my  prayer  deny, 

The  most  despis’d  of  all  the  gods  am  I.” 

With  a deep  sigh  the  Thundering  Power 
replies : 

“To  what  a height  will  Juno’s  anger  rise ! 

Still  doth  her  voice  before  the  gods  upbraid 
My  partial  hand,  that  gives  the  Trojans  aid. 


OF  TICKELL. 


113 


I grant  thy  suit.  But,  hence  ! depart  unseen, 
And  shun  the  sight  of  Heaven’s  suspicious  queen. 
Believe  my  nod,  the  great,  the  certain  sign, 
When  Jove  propitious  hears  the  powers  divine ; 
The  sign  that  ratifies  my  high  command, 

That  thus  I will : and  what  I will  shall  stand.” 

This  said,  his  kingly  brow  the  sire  inclin’d ; 
The  large  black  curls  fell  awful  from  behind, 
Thick  shadowing  the  stern  forehead  of  the  god : 
Olympus  trembled  at  th’  almighty  nod. 

The  goddess  smil’d : and,  with  a sudden  leap, 
From  the  mountain  plung’d  into  the  deep. 

But  Jove  repair’d  to  his  celestial  towers  : 

And,  as  he  rose,  uprose  the  immortal  powers. 

In  ranks,  on  either  side,  th’  assembly  cast, 

Bow’d  down,  and  did  obeisance  as  he  pass’d. 

To  him  enthron’d  (for  whispering  she  had  seen 
Close  at  his  knees  the  silver-footed  queen, 
Daughter  of  him,  who,  low  beneath  the  tides, 
Aged  and  hoary  in  the  deep  resides) 

Big  with  invectives,  Juno  silence  broke, 

And  thus  opprobrious  her  resentments  spoke  : 

“ F alse  Jove ! what  goddess  whispering  did  I see  P 
0 fond  of  counsels,  still  conceal’d  from  me  ! 

To  me  neglected,  thou  wilt  ne’er  impart 
One  single  thought  of  thy  close-cover’d  heart.” 

To  whom  the  sire  of  gods  and  men  reply ’d ; 

“ Strive  not  to  find,  what  I decree  to  hide. 
Laborious  were  the  search,  and  vain  the  strife, 
Vain  ev’n  for  thee,  my  sister  and  my  wife. 

8 


114 


THE  POEMS 


The  thoughts  and  counsels  proper  to  declare, 

Nor  god  nor  mortal  shall  before  thee  share  : 

But,  what  my  secret  wisdom  shall  ordain, 

Think  not  to  reach,  for  know  the  thought  were 
vain.” 

“ Dread  Saturn’s  son,  why  so  severe  ? ” replies 
The  goddess  of  the  large  majestic  eyes. 

“ Thy  own  dark  thoughts  at  pleasure  hide,  or 
show ; 

Ne’er  have  I ask’d,  nor  now  aspire  to  know. 

Nor  yet  my  fears  are  vain,  nor  came  unseen 
To  thy  high  throne,  the  silver-footed  queen, 
Daughter  of  him,  who  low  beneath  the  tides 
Aged  and  hoary  in  the  deep  resides. 

Thy  nod  assures  me  she  was  not  deny’d : 

And  Greece  must  perish  for  a madman’s  pride.” 
To  wrhom  the  god,  whose  hand  the  tempest 
forms, 

Drives  clouds  on  clouds,  and  blackens  Heaven 
with  storms, 

Thus  wrathful  answer’d : “ Dost  thou  still  complain? 
Perplex’d  for  ever,  and  perplex’d  in  vain  ! 
Should’st  thou  disclose  the  dark  event  to  come  ! 
How  wilt  thou  stop  the  irrevocable  doom ! 

This  serves  the  more  to  sharpen  my  disdain ; 
And  woes  foreseen  but  lengthen  out  thy  pain. 

Be  silent  then.  Dispute  not  my  command ; 

Nor  tempt  the  force  of  this  superior  hand  : 

Lest  all  the  gods,  around  thee  leagu’d,  engage 
In  vain  to  shield  thee  from  my  kindled  rage.” 


OF  TICKELL. 


115 


Mute  and  abash’d  she  sat  without  reply, 

And  downward  turn’d  her  large  majestic  eye, 
Nor  further  durst  the  offended  sire  provoke  : 

The  gods  around  him  trembled,  as  he  spoke. 
When  Yulcan,  for  his  mother  sore  distress’d, 
Turn’d  orator,  and  thus  his  speech  addrest ; 

“ Hard  is  our  fate,  if  men  of  mortal  line 
Stir  up  debate  among  the  powers  divine, 

If  things  on  Earth  disturb  the  blest  abodes, 

And  mar  th’  ambrosial  banquet  of  the  gods  ! 
Then  let  my  mother  once  be  rul’d  by  me, 
Though  much  more  wise  than  I pretend  to  be : 
Let  me  advise  her  silent  to  obey, 

And  due  submission  to  our  father  pay. 

Nor  force  again  his  gloomy  rage  to  rise, 

Ill-tim’d,  and  damp  the  revels  of  the  skies. 

For  should  he  toss  her  from  th’  Olympian  hill, 
Who  could  resist  the  mighty  monarch’s  will  ? 
Then  thou  to  love  the  Thunderer  reconcile, 

And  tempt  him  kindly  on  us  all  to  smile,” 

He  said  : and  in  his  tottering  hands  upbore 
A double  goblet,  fill’d,  and  foaming  o’er. 

“ Sit  down,  dear  mother,  with  a heart  content, 
Nor  urge  a more  disgraceful  punishment, 

Which  if  great  Jove  inflict,  poor  I,  dismay’d, 
Must  stand  aloof,  nor  dare  to  give  thee  aid. 
Great  Jove  shall  reign  for  ever,  uncontroll’d  : 
Remember,  when  I took  thy  part  of  old, 

Caught  by  the  heel  he  swung  me  round  on  high, 
And  headlong  hurl’d  me  from  th’  ethereal  sky : 


116 


THE  POEMS 


From  morn  to  noon  I fell,  from  noon  to  night ; 
Till  pitch’d  on  Lemnos,  a most  piteous  sight, 

The  Sintians  hardly  could  my  breath  recall, 
Giddy  and  gasping  with  the  dreadful  fall.” 

She  smil’d : and,  smiling,  her  white  arm  dis- 
play’d 

To  reach  the  bowl  her  awkward  son  convey’d. 
From  right  to  left  the  generous  bowl  he  crown’d, 
And  dealt  the  rosy  nectar  fairly  round. 

The  gods  laugh’d  out,  unweary’d,  as  they  spy’d 
The  busy  skinker  hop  from  side  to  side. 

Thus,  feasting  to  the  full,  they  pass’d  away, 

In  blissful  banquets,  all  the  livelong  day. 

Nor  wanted  melody.  With  heavenly  art 
The  Muses  sung  ; each  Muse  perform’d  her  part, 
Alternate  warbling  ; while  the  golden  lyre, 
Touch’d  by  Apollo,  led  the  vocal  choir. 

The  Sun  at  length  declin’d,  when  every  guest 
Sought  his  bright  palace,  and  withdrew  to  rest ; 
Each  had  his  palace  on  th’  Olympian  hill, 

A masterpiece  of  Vulcan’s  matchless  skill. 

E v’n  he,  the  god,  who  Heaven’s  great  sceptre  sways, 
And  frowns  amid  the  lightning’s  dreadful  blaze, 
His  bed  of  state  ascending,  lay  compos’d ; 

His  eyes  a sweet  refreshing  slumber  clos’d  ; 

And  at  his  side,  all  glorious  to  behold, 

Was  Juno  lodg’d  in  her  alcove  of  gold. 


OF  TICKELL. 


117 


TO 

THE  EARL  OF  WARWICK, 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  ADDISON. 

If,  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  Muse  hath  stay’d, 
And  left  her  debt  to  Addison  unpaid, 

Blame  not  her  silence,  Warwick,  but  bemoan, 
And  judge,  Oh  judge,  my  bosom  by  your  own. 
What  mourner  ever  felt  poetic  fires  ! 

Slow  comes  the  verse  that  real  woe  inspires : 
Grief  unaffected  suits  but  ill  with  art, 

Or  flowing  numbers  'With  a bleeding  heart. 

Can  I forget  the  dismal  night  that  gave 
My  soul’s  best  part  for  ever  to  the  grave  ! 

How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread, 

By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Through  breathing  statues,  then  unheeded  things, 
Through  rows  of  warriors,  and  through  walks  of 
kings  ! 

What  awe  did  the  slow  solemn  knell  inspire ; 

The  pealing  organ,  and  the  pausing  choir ; 

The  duties  by  the  lawn-rob’d  prelate  pay’d ; 

And  the  last  words  that  dust  to  dust  convey’d ! 
While  speechless  o’er  thy  closing  grave  we  bend, 
Accept  these  tears,  thou  dear  departed  friend. 


118 


THE  POEMS 


Ob,  gone  for  ever ; take  this  long  adieu ; 

And  sleep  in  peace,  next  thy  lov’d  Montague. 

To  strew  fresh  laurels,  let  the  task  be  mine, 

A frequent  pilgrim,  at  thy  sacred  shrine ; 

Mine  with  true  sighs  thy  absence  to  bemoan, 

And  grave  with  faithful  epitaphs  thy  stone. 

If  e’er  from  me  thy  lov’d  memorial  part, 

May  shame  afflict  this  alienated  heart ; 

Of  thee  forgetful  if  I form  a song, 

My  lyre  be  broken,  and  untun’d  my  tongue, 

My  grief  be  doubled  from  thy  image  free, 

And  mirth  a torment,  unchastis’d  by  thee. 

Oft  let  me  range  the  gloomy  aisles  alone, 

Sad  luxury  ! to  vulgar  minds  unknown, 

Along  the  walls  where  speaking  marbles  show 
What  worthies  form  the  hallow’d  mould  below ; 
Proud  names,  who  once  the  reins  of  empire  held  ; 
In  arms  who  triumph’d  ; or  in  arts  excell’d  ; 
Chiefs,  grac’d  with  scars,  and  prodigal  of  blood  ; 
Stern  patriots,  who  for  sacred  freedom  stood  ; 
Just  men,  by  whom  impartial  laws  were  given ; 
And  saints  who  taught,  and  led  the  way  to  Heaven  ; 
Ne’er  to  these  chambers,  where  the  mighty  rest, 
Since  their  foundation,  came  a nobler  guest ; 

Nor  e’er  was  to  the  bowers  of  bliss  convey’d 
A fairer  spirit  or  more  welcome  shade. 

In  what  new  region,  to  the  just  assign’d, 

What  new  employments  please  th’  unbody’d 
A winged  Virtue , through  th’  ethereal  sky,  [mind  ? 
From  world  to  world  unweary’d  does  he  fly  ? 


OF  TICKELL. 


119 


Or  curious  trace  the  long  laborious  maze 
Of  Heaven’s  decrees,  where  wondering  angels 
gaze  ? 

Does  he  delight  to  hear  bold  seraphs  tell 
How  Michael  battled,  and  the  dragon  fell ; 

Or,  mix’d  with  milder  cherubim,  to  glow 
In  hymns  of  love,  not  ill  essay’d  below  •? 

Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 

A task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind? 

Oh ! if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend : 

To  me,  thy  aid,  thou  guardian  genius,  lend ! 
When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms, 
When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms, 
In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart, 

And  turn  from  ill,  a frail  and  feeble  heart ; 

Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before, 
Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us  more. 

That  awful  form,  which,  so  the  Heavens  decree, 
Must  still  be  lov’d  and  still  deplor’d  by  me  ; 

In  nightly  visions  seldom  fails  to  rise, 

Or,  rous’d  by  Fancy,  meets  my  waking  eyes. 

If  business  calls,  or  crowded  courts  invite, 

Th’  unblemish’d  statesman  seems  to  strike  my 
sight ; 

If  in  the  stage  I seek  to  soothe  my  care, 

I meet  his  soul  which  breathes  in  Cato  there  ; 

If  pensive  to  the  rural  shades  I rove, 

His  shape  o’ertakes  me  in  the  lonely  grove  ; 
’Twas  there  of  just  and  good  he  reason’d  strong, 
Clear’d  some  great  truth,  or  rais’d  some  serious  song : 


120 


THE  POEMS 


There  patient  show’d  us  the  wise  course  to  steer, 
A candid  censor,  and  a friend  severe ; 

There  taught  us  how  to  live  ; and  (oh  ! too  high 
The  price  for  knowledge)  taught  us  how  to  die. 
Thou  Hill,  whose  brow  the  antique  structures 
grace, 

Rear’d  by  bold  chiefs  of  Warwick’s  noble  race, 
Why,  once  so  lov’d,  whene’er  thy  bower  appears, 
O’er  my  dim  eyeballs  glance  the  sudden  tears  ! 
How  sweet  were  once  thy  prospects  fresh  and  fair, 
Thy  sloping  walks,  and  unpolluted  air ! 

How  sweet  the  glooms  beneath  thy  aged  trees, 
Thy  noontide  shadow,  and  thy  evening  breeze ! 
His  image  thy  forsaken  bowers  restore  ; 

Thy  walks  and  airy  prospects  charm  no  more  ; 
No  more  the  summer  in  thy  glooms  allay’d, 

Thy  evening  breezes,  and  thy  noonday  shade. 

From  other  hills,  however  Fortune  frown’d; 
Some  refuge  in  the  Muse’s  art  I found  ; 
Reluctant  now  I touch  the  trembling  string, 
Bereft  of  him,  who  taught  me  how  to  sing ; 

And  these  sad  accents,  murmur’d  o’er  his  urn, 
Betray  that  absence,  they  attempt  to  mourn. 

0 ! must  I then  (now  fresh  my  bosom  bleeds, 
And  Craggs  in  death  to  Addison  succeeds) 

The  verse,  begun  to  one  lost  friend,  prolong, 

And  weep  a second  in  th’  unfinish’d  song ! 

These  works  divine,  which,  on  his  death-bed 
laid 

To  thee,  O Craggs,  th’  expiring  sage  convey’d, 


OF  TICKELL. 


121 


Great,  but  ill-omen’d,  monument  of  fame, 

Nor  he  surviv’d  to  give,  nor  thou  to  claim. 

Swift  after  him  thy  social  spirit  flies, 

And  close  to  his,  how  soon ! thy  coffin  lies. 

Blest  pair ! whose  union  future  bards  shall  tell 
In  future  tongues : each  other’s  boast ! farewell, 
Farewell ! whom  join’d  in  fame,  in  friendship  try’d, 
No  chance  could  sever,  nor  the  grave  divide. 


COLIN  AND  LUCY. 

A BALLAD. 

Of  Leinster,  fam’d  for  maidens  fair, 
Bright  Lucy  was  the  grace ; 

Nor  e’er  did  Liffy’s  limpid  stream 
Reflect  so  sweet  a face  : 

Till  luckless  love,  and  pining  care, 
Impair’d  her  rosy  hue, 

Her  coral  lips,  and  damask  cheeks, 
And  eyes  of  glossy  blue. 

Oh ! have  you  seen  a lily  pale, 

When  beating  rains  descend  ? 

So  droop’d  the  slow-consuming  maid, 
Her  life  now  near  its  end. 


122 


THE  POEMS 


By  Lucy  warn’d,  of  flattering  swains 
Take  heed,  ye  easy  fair : 

Of  vengeance  due  to  broken  vows, 

Ye  perjur’d  swains,  beware. 

Three  times,  all  in  the  dead  of  night, 

A bell  was  heard  to  ring ; 

And  shrieking  at  her  window  thrice, 

The  raven  flapp’d  his  wing. 

Too  well  the  love-lorn  maiden  knew 
The  solemn  boding  sound : 

And  thus,  in  dying  words,  bespoke 
The  virgins  weeping  round : 

“ I hear  a voice,  you  cannot  hear, 

Which  says,  I must  not  stay  ; 

I see  a hand,  you  cannot  see, 

Which  beckons  me  away. 

By  a false  heart,  and  broken  vows, 

In  early  youth  I die  : 

Was  I to  blame,  because  his  bride 
Was  thrice  as  rich  as  I ? 

“Ah,  Colin ! give  not  her  thy  vows, 

Vows  due  to  me  alone  : 

Nor  thou,  fond  maid,  receive  his  kiss, 

Nor  think  him  all  thy  own. 

To-morrow,  in  the  church  to  wed, 

Impatient,  both  prepare ! 

But  know,  fond  maid  ; and  know,  false  man, 
That  Lucy  will  be  there ! 


OF  TICKELL. 


123 


“ Then  bear  my  corse,  my  comrades,  bear, 
This  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet, 

He  in  his  wedding-trim  so  gay, 

I in  my  winding-sheet.” 

She  spoke,  she  dy’d,  her  corse  was  borne, 
The  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet, 

He  in  his  wedding  trim  so  gay, 

She  in  her  winding-sheet. 


Then  what  were  perjur’d  Colin’s  thoughts  ? 

How  were  these  nuptials  kept  ? 

The  bridesmen  flock’d  round  Lucy  dead, 
And  all  the  village  wept. 

Confusion,  shame,  remorse,  despair, 

At  once  his  bosom  swell : 

The  damps  of  death  bedew’d  his  brow, 

He  shook,  he  groan’d,  he  fell. 

From  the  vain  bride,  ah,  bride  no  more ! 

The  varying  crimson  fled, 

When,  stretch’d  before  her  rival’s  corse, 

She  saw  her  husband  dead. 

Then  to  his  Lucy’s  new-made  grave, 
Convey’d  by  trembling  swains, 

One  mould  with  her,  beneath  one  sod, 

For  ever  he  remains. 

Oft  at  this  grave,  the  constant  hind 
And  plighted  maid  are  seen  ; 

With  garlands  gay,  and  true-love  knots. 
They  deck  the  sacred  green  ; 


124 


THE  POEMS 


But  swain  forsworn,  whoe’er  thou  art, 
This  hallow’d  spot  forbear ; 
Remember  Colin’s  dreadful  fate, 

And  fear  to  meet  him  there. 


TO  SIR  GODFREY  KNELLER, 

AT  HIS  COUNTRY  SEAT. 

To  Whitton’s  shades,  and  Hounslow’s  airy  plain, 
Thou,  Kneller,  tak’st  thy  summer  flights  in  vain, 
In  vain  thy  wish  gives  all  thy  rural  hours 
To  the  fair  villa,  and  well-order’d  bowers ; 

To  court  thy  pencil  early  at  thy  gates, 

Ambition  knocks,  and  fleeting  Beauty  waits ; 

The  boastful  Muse,  of  others’  fame  so  sure, 
Implores  thy  aid  to  make  her  own  secure ; 

The  great,  the  fair,  and,  if  aught  nobler  be, 
Aught  more  belov’d,  the  Arts  solicit  thee. 

How  canst  thou  hope  to  fly  the  world,  in  vain 
From  Europe  sever’d  by  the  circling  main  ; 
Sought  by  the  kings  of  every  distant  land, 

And  every  hero  worthy  of  thy  hand  ? 

Hast  thou  forgot  that  mighty  Bourbon  fear’d 
He  still  was  mortal,  till  thy  draught  appear’d  ? 


OF  TICKELL. 


125 


That  Cosmo  chose  thy  glowing  form  to  place, 
Amidst  her  masters  of  the  Lombard  race  ? 

See,  on  her  Titian’s  and  her  Guido’s  urns, 

Her  falling  arts  forlorn  Hesperia  mourns  ; 

While  Britain  wins  each  garland  from  her  brow, 
Her  wit  and  freedom  first,  her  painting  now. 

Let  the  faint  copier,  on  old  Tiber’s  shore, 

Nor  mean  the  task,  each  breathing  bust  explore, 
Line  after  line,  with  painful  patience  trace, 

This  Roman  grandeur,  that  Athenian  grace  : 

Yain  care  of  parts  ; if,  impotent  of  soul, 

Th’  industrious  workman  fails  to  warm  the  whole, 
Each  theft  betrays  the  marble  whence  it  came, 
And  a cold  statue  stiffens  in  the  frame. 

Thee  Nature  taught,  nor  Art  her  aid  deny’d, 

The  kindest  mistress,  and  the  surest  guide, 

To  catch  a likeness  at  one  piercing  sight, 

And  place  the  fairest  in  the  fairest  light ; 

Ere  yet  thy  pencil  tries  her  nicer  toils 
Or  on  thy  palette  lie  the  blended  oils, 

Thy  careless  chalk  has  half  achiev’d  thy  art, 

And  her  just  image  makes  Cleora  start. 

A mind  that  grasps  the  whole  is  rarely  found, 
Half  learn’d,  half  painters,  and  half  wits  abound ; 
Few,  like  thy  genius,  at  proportion  aim, 

All  great,  all  graceful,  and  throughout  the  same. 

Such  be  thy  life,  O since  the  glorious  rage 
That  fir’d  thy  youth,  flames  unsubdued  by  age  ! 
Though  wealth,  nor  fame,  now  touch  thy  sated  mind, 
Still  tinge  the  canvas,  bounteous  to  mankind ; 


126 


THE  POEMS 


Since  after  thee  may  rise  an  impious  line, 
Coarse  manglers  of  the  human  face  divine, 
Paint  on,  till  Fate  dissolve  thy  mortal  part, 
And  live  and  die  the  monarch  of  thy  art. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  EAKL  OF 
CADOGAN. 

Of  Marlborough’s  captains,  and  Eugenio’s  friends, 
The  last,  Cadogan,  to  the  grave  descends : 

Low  lies  each  hand,  whence  Blenheim’s  glory 
sprung, 

The  chiefs  who  conquer’d,  and  the  bards  who  sung, 
From  his  cold  corse  though  every  friend  be  fled, 
Lo  ! Envy  waits,  that  lover  of  the  dead  : 

Thus  did  she  feign  o’er  Nassau’s  hearse  to  mourn  ; 
Thus  wept  insidious,  Churchill,  o’er  thy  urn ; 

To  blast  the  living,  gave  the  dead  their  due, 

And  wreaths,  herself  had  tainted,  trimm’d  anew, 
Thou,  yet  unnam’d  to  fill  his  empty  place, 

And  lead  to  war  thy  country’s  growing  race, 
Take  every  wish  a British  heart  can  frame, 

Add  palm  to  palm,  and  rise  from  fame  to  fame. 
An  hour  must  come,  when  thou  shalt  hear  with 
rage 

Thyself  traduc’d,  and  curse  a thankless  age  : 


OF  TICKELL. 


127 


Nor  yet  for  this  decline  the  generous  strife, 

These  ills,  brave  man,  shall  quit  thee  with  thy  life, 
Alive  though  stain’d  by  every  abject  slave, 
Secure  of  fame  and  justice  in  the  grave. 

Ah ! no when  once  the  mortal  yields  to  Fate, 

The  blast  of  Fame’s  sweet  trumpet  sounds  too  late, 
Too  late  to  stay  the  spirit  on  its  flight, 

Or  soothe  the  new  inhabitant  of  light ; 

Who  hears  regardless,  while  fond  man,  distress’d, 
Hangs  on  the  absent,  and  laments  the  blest. 
Farewell  then  Fame,  ill  sought  thro’  fields  and 
blood, 

Farewell  unfaithful  promiser  of  good  : 

Thou  music,  warbling  to  the  deafen’d  ear ! 

Thou  incense  wasted  on  the  funeral  bier ! 
Through  life  pursued  in  vain,  by  death  obtain’d, 
When  ask’d  deny’d  us,  and  when  given  disdain’d. 


AN  ODE 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  EARL  OF  SUNDERLAND 
AT  WINDSOR. 

Thou  Dome,  where  Edward  first  enroll’d 
His  red-cross  knights  and  barons  bold, 
Whose  vacant  seats,  by  Virtue  bought, 
Ambitious  emperors  have  sought : 


128 


THE  POEMS 


Where  Britain’s  foremost  names  are  found, 
In  peace  belov’d,  in  war  renown’d, 

Who  made  the  hostile  nations  moan, 

Or  brought  a blessing  on  their  own : 


Once  more  a son  of  Spencer  waits, 

A name  familiar  to  thy  gates  ; 

Sprung  from  the  chief  whose  prowess  gain’d 
The  Garter  while  thy  founder  reign’d, 

He  offer’d  here  his  dinted  shield, 

The  dread  of  Gauls  in  Cressi’s  field, 

Which,  in  thy  higli-arch’d  temple  rais’d, 

For  four  long  centuries  hath  blaz’d. 


These  seats  our  sires,  a hardy  kind, 

To  the  fierce  sons  of  war  confin’d, 

The  flower  of  chivalry,  who  drew 
With  sinew’d  arm  the  stubborn  yew : 

Or  with  heav’d  pole-axe  clear’d  the  field ; 
Or  who,  in  justs  and  tourneys  skill’d, 
Before  their  ladies’  eyes  renown’d, 

Threw  horse  and  horseman  to  the  ground. 

In  after-times,  as  courts  refin’d, 

Our  patriots  in  the  list  wTere  join’d. 

Not  only  Warwick  stain’d  with  blood, 

Or  Marlborough  near  the  Danube’s  flood, 
Have  in  their  crimson  crosses  glow’d; 

But,  on  just  lawgivers  bestow’d, 


OF  TICKELL. 


129 


These  emblems  Cecil  did  invest, 

And  gleam’d  on  wise  Godolphin’s  breast. 

So  Greece,  ere  arts  began  to  rise, 

Fix’d  huge  Orion  in  the  skies, 

And  stern  Alcides,  fam’d  in  wars, 
Bespangled  with  a thousand  stars  ; 

Till  letter’d  Athens  round  the  pole 
Made  gentler  constellations  roll ; 

In  the  blue  heavens  the  lyre  she  strung, 
And  near  the  Maid  the  Balance  1 hung. 

Then,  Spencer,  mount  amid  the  band, 
Where  knights  and  kings  promiscuous 
stand. 

What  though  the  hero’s  flame  repress’d 
Burns  calmly  in  thy  generous  breast ! 

Yet  who  more  dauntless  to  oppose 
In  doubtful  days  our  home-bred  foes  ! 

Who  rais’d  his  country’s  wealth  so  high, 

Or  view’d  with  less  desiring  eye ! 

The  sage,  who,  large  of  soul,  surveys 
The  globe,  and  all  its  empires  weighs, 
Watchful  the  various  climes  to  guide, 
Which  seas,  and  tongues,  and  faiths,  divide, 
A nobler  name  in  Windsor’s  shrine 
Shall  leave,  if  right  the  Muse  divine, 

1 Names  of  constellations. 

9 


130 


THE  POEMS 


Than  sprung  of  old,  abhorr’d  and  vain, 
From  ravag’d  realms  and  myriads  slain. 

Why  praise  we,  prodigal  of  fame, 

The  rage  that  sets  the  world  on  flame  ? 
My  guiltless  Muse  his  brow  shall  bind 
Whose  godlike  bounty  spares  mankind. 
For  those,  whom  bloody  garlands  crown, 
The  brass  may  breathe,  the  marble  frown, 
To  him  through  every  rescued  land, 

Ten  thousand  living  trophies  stand. 


KENSINGTON  GARDEN. 

....  Campos,  ubi  Troja  fuit.  Virg. 

Where  Kensington,  high  o’er  the  neighbouring 
lands 

Midst  greens  and  sweets,  a regal  fabric,  stands, 
And  sees  each  spring,  luxuriant  in  her  bowers, 

A snow  of  blossoms,  and  a wild  of  flowers, 

The  dames  of  Britain  oft  in  crowds  repair 
To  gravel  walks,  and  unpolluted  air. 

Here,  while  the  town  in  damps  and  darkness  lies, 
They  breathe  in  sunshine,  and  see  azure  skies ; 
Each  walk,  with  robes  of  various  dyes  bespread, 
Seems  from  afar  a moving  tulip-bed, 

Where  rich  brocades  and  glossy  damasks  glow, 
And  chints,  the  rival  of  the  showery  bow. 


OF  TICKELL. 


131 


Here  England’s  daughter,  darling  of  the  land, 
Sometimes,  surrounded  with  her  virgin  band, 
Gleams  through  the  shades.  She,  towering  o’er 
the  rest, 

Stands  fairest  of  the  fairer  kind  confest, 

Form’d  to  gain  hearts,  that  Brunswick’s  cause 
deny’d, 

And  charm  a people  to  her  father’s  side. 

Long  have  these  groves  to  royal  guests  been 
known, 

Nor  Nassau  first  preferr’d  them  to  a throne. 

Ere  Norman  banners  wav’d  in  British  air ; 

Ere  lordly  Hubba  with  the  golden  hair 
Pour’d  in  his  Danes  ; ere  elder  Julius  came ; 

Or  Dardan  Brutus  gave  our  isle  a name ; 

A prince  of  Albion’s  lineage  grac’d  the  wood, 

The  scene  of  wars,  and  stain’d  with  lovers’  blood. 
You,  who  through  gazing  crowds  your  captive 
throng, 

Throw  pangs  and  passions,  as  you  move  along, 
Turn  on  the  left,  ye  fair,  your  radiant  eyes, 
Where  all  unlevell’d  the  gay  garden  lies : 

If  generous  anguish  for  another’s  pains  [veins, 
Ere  heav’d  your  hearts,  or  shiver’d  through  your 
Look  down  attentive  on  the  pleasing  dale, 

And  listen  to  my  melancholy  tale. 

That  hollow  space,  were  now  in  living  rows 
Line  above  line  the  yew’s  sad  verdure  grows, 
Was,  ere  the  planter’s  hand  its  beauty  gave, 

A common  pit,  a rude  unfashion’d  cave. 


132 


THE  POEMS 


The  landscape  now  so  sweet  we  well  may  praise : 
But  far,  far  sweeter  in  its  ancient  days, 

Far  sweeter  was  it,  when  its  peopled  ground 
With  fairy  domes  and  dazzling  towers  was  crown'd. 
Where  in  the  midst  those  verdant  pillars  spring, 
Rose  the  proud  palace  of  the  Elfin  king  ; 

For  every  edge  of  vegetable  green, 

In  happier  years  a crowded  street  was  seen  ; 

Nor  all  those  leaves  that  now  the  prospect  grace, 
Could  match  the  numbers  of  its  pygmy  race, 
What  urg’d  this  mighty  empire  to  its  fate, 

A tale  of  woe  and  wonder,  I relate. 

When  Albion  rul’d  the  land,  whose  lineage  came 
From  Neptune  mingling  with  a mortal  dame, 
Their  midnight  pranks  the  sprightty  fairies  play’d 
On  every  hill,  and  danc’d  in  every  shade. 

But,  foes  to  sunshine,  most  they  took  delight 
In  dells  and  dales  conceal’d  from  human  sight : 
There  hew’d  their  houses  in  the  arching  rock  ; 

Or  scoop’d  the  bosom  of  the  blasted  oak  ; 

Or  heard,  o’ershadow’d  by  some  shelving  hill, 
The  distant  murmurs  of  the  falling  rill. 

They,  rich  in  pilfer’d  spoils,  indulg’d  their  mirth, 
And  pity’d  the  fyuge  wretched  sons  of  Earth. 
Ev’n  now,  ’tis  said,  the  hinds  o’erhear  their  strain, 
And  strive  to  view  their  airy  forms  in  vain : 

They  to  their  cells  at  man’s  approach  repair, 
Like  the  shy  leveret,  or  the  mother-hare, 

The  whilst  poor  mortals  startle  at  the  sound 
Of  unseen  footsteps  on  the  haunted  ground. 


OF  TICKELL. 


133 


Amid  this  garden,  then  with  woods  o’ergrown, 
Stood  the  lov’d  seat  of  royal  Oberon. 

From  every  region  to  his  palace-gate 
Came  peers  and  princes  of  the  fairy  state, 

Who,  rank’d  in  council  round  the  sacred  shade, 
Their  monarch’s  will  and  great  behests  obey’d. 
From  Thames’  fair  banks,  by  lofty  towers  adorn’d, 
With  loads  of  plunder  off  his  chiefs  return’d : 
Hence  in  proud  robes,  and  colours  bright  and  gay, 
Shone  every  knight  and  every  lovely  fay. 
Whoe’er  on  Powell’s  dazzling  stage  display’d, 
Hath  fam’d  king  Pepin  and  his  court  survey’d, 
May  guess,  if  old  by  modern  things  we  trace, 

The  pomp  and  splendour  of  the  fairy-race. 

By  magic  fenc’d,  by  spells  encompass’d  round, 
No  mortal  touch’d  this  interdicted  ground ; 

No  mortal  enter’d,  those  alone  who  came 
Stol’n  from  the  couch  of  some  terrestrial  dame  : 

F or  oft  of  babes  they  robb’d  the  matron’s  bed, 
And  left  some  sickly  changeling  in  their  stead. 

It  chanc’d  a youth  of  Albion’s  royal  blood 
Was  foster’d  here,  the  wonder  of  the  wood. 
Milkah  for  wiles  above  her  peers  renown’d, 
Deep-skill’d  in  charms  and  many  a mystic  sound, 
As  through  the  regal  dome  she  sought  for  prey, 
Observ’d  the  infant  Albion  where  he  lay 
In  mantles  broider’d  o’er  with  georgeous  pride, 
And  stole  him  from  the  sleeping  mother’s  side. 

Who  now  but  Milkah  triumphs  in  her  mind  ! 
Ah,  wretched  nymph,  to  future  evils  blind  ? 


134 


THE  POEMS 


The  time  shall  come  when  thou  shall  dearly  pay 
The  theft,  hard-hearted  ! of  that  guilty  day : 

Thou  in  thy  turn  shalt  like  the  queen  repine, 

And  all  her  sorrows  doubled  shall  be  thine : 

He  who  adorns  thy  house,  the  lovely  boy 
Who  now  adorns  it,  shall  at  length  destroy. 

Two  hundred  moons  in  their  pale  course  had 
seen 

The  gay-rob’d  fairies  glimmer  on  the  green, 

And  Albion  now  had  reach’d  in  youthful  prime 
To  nineteen  years,  as  mortals  measure  time. 
Flush’d  with  resistless  charms  he  fir’d  to  love 
Each  nymph  and  little  Dryad  of  the  grove  ; 

For  skilful  Milkah  spar’d  not  to  employ 
Her  utmost  art  to  rear  the  princely  boy ; 

Each  supple  limb  she  swath’d,  and  tender  bone, 
And  to  the  Elfin  standard  kept  him  down  ; 

She  robb’d  dwarf-elders  of  their  fragrant  fruit, 
And  fed  him  early  with  the  daisy’s  root, 

Whence  through  his  veins  the  powerful  juices 
ran, 

And  form’d  in  beauteous  miniature  the  man. 

Yet  still,  two  inches  taller  than  the  rest, 

His  lofty  port  his  human  birth  confest ; 

A foot  in  height,  how  stately  did  he  show ! 

How  look  superior  on  the  crowd  below  ! 

What  knight  like  him  could  toss  the  rushy  lance  ! 
Who  move  so  graceful  in  the  mazy  dance  ! 

A shape  so  nice,  or  features  half  so  fair, 

What  elf  could  boast ! or  such  a flow  of  hair  ! 


OF  TICKELL. 


135 


Bright  Kenna  saw,  a princess  born  to  reign, 

And  felt  the  charmer  burn  in  every  vein. 

She,  heiress  to  this  empire’s  potent  lord, 

Prais’d  like  the  stars,  and  next  the  Moon  ador’d. 
She,  whom  at  distance  thrones  and  princedoms 
view’d, 

To  whom  proud  Oriel  and  Azuriel  sued, 

In  her  high  palace  languish’d,  void  of  joy, 

And  pin’d  in  secret  for  a mortal  boy. 

He  too  was  smitten,  and  discreetly  strove 
By  courtly  deeds  to  gain  the  virgin’s  love. 

For  her  he  cull’d  the  fairest  flower  that  grew, 
Ere  morning  suns  had  drain’d  their  fragrant  dew ; 
He  chas’d  the  hornet  in  his  mid-day  flight, 

And  brought  her  glowworms  in  the  noon  of  night ; 
When  on  ripe  fruits  she  cast  a wishing  eye, 

Did  ever  Albion  think  the  tree  too  high  ! 

He  show’d  her  where  the  pregnant  goldfinch  hung, 
And  the  wren-mother  brooding  o’er  her  young ; 
To  her  th’  inscription  on  their  eggs  he  read, 
(Admire,  ye  clerks,  the  youth  whom  Milkah  bred) 
To  her  he  show’d  each  herb  of  virtuous  juice, 
Their  powers  distinguish’d,  and  describ’d  their  use : 
All  vain  their  powers,  alas  ! to  Kenna  prove, 
And  well  sung  Ovid,  “ There’s  no  herb  for  love.” 

As  when  a ghost,  enlarg’d  from  realms  below, 
Seeks  its  old  friend  to  tell  some  secret  woe, 

The  poor  shade  shivering  stands,  and  must  not 
break 

His  painful  silence,  till  the  mortal  speak  : 


136 


THE  POEMS 


So  far’d  it  with  the  little  love-sick  maid, 

Forbid  to  utter,  what  her  eyes  betray’d. 

He  saw  her  anguish,  and  reveal’d  his  flame, 

And  spar’d  the  blushes  of  the  tongue-ty’d  dame. 
The  day  would  fail  me,  should  I reckon  o’er 
The  sighs  they  lavish’d,  and  the  oaths  they  swore 
In  words  so  melting,  that  compar’d  with  those 
The  nicest  courtship  of  terrestrial  beaux 
Would  sound  like  compliments,  from  country 
clowns  [gowns. 

To  red  cheek’d  sweethearts  in  their  home-spun 
All  in  a lawn  of  many  a various  hue 
A bed  of  flowers  (a  fairy  forest)  grew” ; 

’Twas  here  one  noon,  the  gaudiest  of  the  May, 
The  still,  the  secret,  silent,  hour  of  day, 

Beneath  a lofty  tulip’s  ample  shade 

Sat  the  young  lover  and  th’  immortal  maid. 

They  thought  all  fairies  slept,  ah,  luckless  pair ! 
Hid,  but  in  vain,  in  the  Sun’s  noon-tide  glare  ! 
When  Albion,  leaning  on  his  Kenna’s  breast, 
Thus  all  the  softness  of  his  soul  exprest : 

u All  things  are  hush’d.  The  Sun’s  meridian 
rays 

Veil  the  horizon  in  one  mighty  blaze : 

Nor  moon  nor  star  in  Heaven’s  blue  arch  is  seen 
With  kindly  rays  to  silver  o’er  the  green, 

Grateful  to  fairy  eyes  ; they  secret  take 
Their  rest,  and  only  wretched  mortals  wake. 

This  dead  of  day  I fly  to  thee  alone, 

A world  to  me,  a multitude  in  one. 


OF  TICKELL. 


137 


Oh,  sweet  as  dew-drops  on  these  flowery  lawns, 
When  the  sky  opens,  and  the  evening  dawns ! 
Straight  as  the  pink,  that  towers  so  high  in  air, 
Soft  as  the  blow-bell ! as  the  daisy,  fair  ! 

Blest  be  the  hour,  when  first  I was  convey’d 
An  infant  captive  to  this  blissful  shade ! 

And  blest  the  hand  that  did  my  form  refine, 

And  shrunk  my  stature  to  a match  with  thine ! 
Glad  I for  thee  renounce  my  royal  birth, 

And  all  the  giant-daughters  of  the  Earth. 

Thou,  if  thy  breast  with  equal  ardour  burn, 
Renounce  thy  kind,  and  love  for  love  return. 

So  from  us  two,  combin’d  by  nuptial  ties, 

A race  unknown  of  demi-gods  shall  rise. 

0 speak,  my  love  ! my  vows  with  vows  repay, 
And  sweetly  swear  my  rising  fears  away.” 

To  whom  (the  shining  azure  of  her  eyes 
More  brighten’d)  thus  th’  enamour’d  maid  replies  : 
“ By  all  the  stars,  and  first  the  glorious  moon, 

1 swear,  and  by  the  head  of  Oberon, 

A dreadful  oath  ! no  prince  of  fairy  line 
Shall  e’er  in  wedlock  plight  his  vows  with  mine. 
Wheree’er  my  footsteps  in  the  dance  are  seen, 
May  toadstools  rise,  and  mildews  blast  the  green, 
May  the  keen  east-wind  blight  my  favourite  flowers, 
And  snakes  and  spotted  adders  haunt  my  bowers. 
Confin’d  whole  ages  in  an  hemlock  shade 
There  rather  pine  I a neglected  maid, 

Or  worse,  exil’d  from  Cynthia’s  gentle  rays, 
Parch  in  the  sun  a thousand  summer-days, 


138 


THE  POEMS 


Than  any  prince,  a prince  of  fairy  line, 

In  sacred  wedlock  plight  his  vows  with  mine.,, 

She  ended  : and  with  lips  of  rosy  hue 
Dipp’d  five  times  over  in  ambrosial  dew, 

Stifled  his  words.  When,  from  his  covert  rear’d. 
The  frowning  brow  of  Oberon  appear’d. 

A sunflower’s  trunk  was  near,  whence  (killing 
sight !) 

The  monarch  issued,  half  an  ell  in  height : 

Full  on  the  pair  a furious  look  he  cast, 

Nor  spoke ; but  gave  his  bugle-horn  a blast, 

That  through  the  woodland  echoed  far  and  wide, 
And  drew  a swarm  of  subjects  to  his  side. 

A hundred  chosen  knights,  in  war  renown’d, 
Drive  Albion  banish’d  from  the  sacred  ground  ; 
And  twice  ten  myriads  guard  the  bright  abodes, 
Where  the  proud  king,  amidst  his  demi-gods, 

For  Kenna’s  sudden  bridal  bids  prepare, 

And  to  Azuriel  gives  the  weeping  fair. 

If  fame  in  arms,  with  ancient  birtli  combin’d, 

A faultless  beauty,  and  a spotless  mind, 

To  love  and  praise  can  generous  souls  incline, 
That  love,  Azuriel,  and  that  praise,  was  thine. 
Blood  only  less  than  royal  fill’d  thy  veins, 

Proud  was  thy  roof,  and  large  thy  fair  domains. 
Where  now  the  skies  high  Holland-House  in- 
vades, 

And  short-liv’d  Warwick  sadden’d  all  the  shades, 
Thy  dwelling  stood : nor  did  in  him  afford 
A nobler  owner,  or  a lovelier  lord. 


OF  TICKELL. 


139 


For  thee  a hundred  fields  produc’d  their  store, 
And  by  thy  name  ten  thousand  vassals  swore ; 

So  lov’d  thy  name,  that,  at  their  monarch’s  choice, 
All  fairy  shouted  with  a general  voice. 

Oriel  alone  a secret  rage  supprest, 

That  from  his  bosom  heav’d  the  golden  vest. 
Along  the  banks  of  Thame  his  empire  ran, 

Wide  was  his  range,  and  populous  his  clan. 

When  cleanly  servants,  if  we  trust  old  tales, 
Beside  their  wages  had  good  fairy  vails, 

Whole  heaps  of  silver  tokens,  nightly  paid, 

The  careful  wife,  or  the  neat  dairy-maid, 

Sunk  not  his  stores.  With  smiles  and  powerful 
bribes 

He  gain’d  the  leaders  of  his  neighbour  tribes, 
And  ere  the  night  the  face  of  Heaven  had  chang’d, 
Beneath  his  banners  half  the  fairies  rang’d. 

Meanwhile,  driven  back  to  Earth,  a lonely  way 
The  cheerless  Albion  wander’d  half  the  day, 

A long,  long  journey,  chok’d  with  brakes  and 
thorns 

Ill-measur’d  by  ten  thousand  barley-corns. 

Tir’d  out  at  length  a spreading  stream  he  spied 
Fed  by  old  Thame,  a daughter  of  the  tide  : 

’Twas  then  a spreading  stream,  though  now  its 
fame 

Obscur’d,  it  bears  the  Greek’s  inglorious  name, 
And  creeps,  as  through  contracted  bounds  it 
strays, 

A leap  for  boys  in  these  degenerate  days. 


140 


THE  POEMS 


On  the  clear  crystal’s  verdant  bank  he  stood, 

And  thrice  look’d  backward  on  the  fatal  wood, 
And  thrice  he  groan’d,  and  thrice  he  beat  his 
breast, 

And  thus  in  tears  his  kindred  gods  addrest : 

“ If  true,  ye  watery  powers,  my  lineage  came 
From  Neptune  mingling  with  a mortal  dame ; 
Down  to  his  court,  with  coral  garlands  crown’d, 
Through  all  your  grottos  waft  my  plaintive  sound, 
And  urge  the  god,  whose  trident  shakes  the  Earth, 
To  grace  his  offspring,  and  assert  my  birth.” 

He  said.  A gentle  Naiad  heard  his  prayer, 
And,  touch’d  with  pity  for  a lover’s  care, 

Shoots  to  the  sea,  where  low  beneath  the  tides 
Old  Neptune  in  th’  unfathom’d  deep  resides. 
Rous’d  at  the  news,  the  sea’s  stern  sultan  swore 
Revenge,  and  scarce  from  present  arms  forbore  ; 
But  first  the  nymph  his  harbinger  he  sends, 

And  to  her  care  the  favourite  boy  commends. 

As  thro’  the  Thames  her  backward  course  she 
guides, 

Driv’n  up  his  current  by  the  refluent  tides, 

Along  his  banks  the  pygmy  legions  spread 
She  spies,  and  haughty  Oriel  at  their  head. 

Soon  with  wrong’d  Albion’s  name  the  host  she  fires, 
And  counts  the  ocean’s  god,  among  his  sires  ; 

“ The  ocean’s  god,  by  whom  shall  be  o’erthrown, 
(Styx  heard  his  oath)  the  tyrant  Oberon. 

See  here  beneath  a toadstool’s  deadly  gloom 
Lies  Albion  ; him  the  Fates  your  leader  doom. 


OF  TICKELL. 


141 


Hear,  and  obey ; ’tis  Neptune’s  powerful  call, 

By  him  Azuriel  and  his  king  shall  fall.” 

She  said.  They  bow’d : and  on  their  shields 
upbore 

With  shouts  their  new-saluted  emperor. 

E’en  Oriel  smil’d : at  least  to  smile  he  strove, 
And  hopes  of  vengeance  triumph’d  over  love. 

See  now  the  mourner  of  the  lonely  shade 
By  gods  protected,  and  by  hosts  obey’d, 

A slave,  a chief,  by  fickle  Fortune’s  play, 

In  the  short  course  of  one  revolving  day. 

What  wonder  if  the  youth,  so  strangely  blest, 

F elt  his  heart  flutter  in  his  little  breast ! 

His  thick  embattled  troops,  with  secret  pride, 

He  views  extended  half  an  acre  wide  ; 

More  light  he  treads,  more  tall  he  seems  to  rise, 
And  struts  a straw-breadth  nearer  to  the  skies. 

O for  thy  Muse,  great  Bard,1  whose  lofty 
strains 

In  battle  join’d  the  Pygmies  and  the  Cranes  ; 
Each  gaudy  knight,  had  I that  warmth  divine, 
Each  colour’d  legion  in  my  verse  should  shine. 
But  simple  I,  and  innocent  of  art, 

The  tale,  that  sooth’d  my  infant  years,  impart, 
The  tale  I heard  whole  winter-eves,  untir’d, 

And  sing  the  battles,  that  my  nurse  inspir’d. 

Now  the  shrill  corn-pipes,  echoing  loud  to  arms, 
To  rank  and  file  reduce  the  straggling  swarms, 


1 Mr.  Addison. 


142 


THE  POEMS 


Thick  rows  of  spears  at  once,  with  sudden  glare, 
A grove  of  needles,  glitter  in  the  air  ; 

Loose  in  the  winds  small  ribbon-streamers  flow, 
Dipt  in  all  colours  of  the  heavenly  bow, 

And  the  gay  host,  that  now  its  march  pursues, 
Gleams  o’er  the  meadows  in  a thousand  hues. 

On  Buda’s  plains  thus  formidably  bright, 

Shone  Asia’s  sons,  a pleasing,  dreadful  sight. 

In  various  robes  their  silken  troops  were  seen, 
The  blue,  the  red,  and  Prophet’s  sacred  green  : 
When  blooming  Brunswick,  near  the  Danube’s 
flood, 

First  stain’d  his  maiden  sword  in  Turkish  blood. 

Unseen  and  silent  march  the  slow  brigades 
Through  pathless  wilds,  and  unfrequented  shades. 
In  hope  already  vanquish’d  by  surprise, 

In  Albion’s  power  the  fairy  empire  lies  ; 

Already  has  he  seiz’d  on  Kenna’s  charms, 

And  the  glad  beauty  trembles  in  his  arms. 

The  march  concludes : and  now  in  prospect 
near, 

But  fenc’d  with  arms,  the  hostile  towers  appear. 
For  Oberon,  or  Druids  falsely  sing, 

Wore  his  prime  vizier  in  a magic  ring, 

A subtle  spright,  that  opening  plots  foretold 
By  sudden  dimness  on  the  beamy  gold. 

Hence,  in  a crescent  form’d,  his  legions  bright 
With  beating  bosoms  waited  for  the  fight ; 

To  charge  their  foes  they  march,  a glittering  band, 
And  in  their  van  doth  bold  Azuriel  stand. 


OF  TICKELL. 


143 


What  rage  that  hour  did  Albion’s  soul  possess, 
Let  chiefs  imagine,  and  let  lovers  guess  ! 

Forth  issuing  from  his  ranks,  that  strove  in  vain 
To  check  his  course,  athwart  the  dreadful  plain 
He  strides  indignant,  and  with  haughty  cries 
To  single  fight  the  fairy  prince  defies. 

Forbear  ! rash  youth,  th’  unequal  war  to  try  ; 
Nor,  sprung  from  mortals,  with  immortals  vie. 

No  god  stands  ready  to  avert  thy  doom, 

Nor  yet  thy  grandsire  of  the  waves  is  come. 

My  words  are  vain — no  words  the  wretch  can 
move, 

By  Beauty  dazzled,  and  bewitch’d  by  Love : 

He  longs,  he  burns,  to  win  the  glorious  prize, 
And  sees  no  danger,  while  he  sees  her  eyes. 

Now  from  each  host  the  eager  warriors  start, 
And  furious  Albion  flings  his  hasty  dart, 

’Twas  feather’d  from  the  bee’s  transparent  wing, 
And  its  shaft  ended  in  a hornet’s  sting ; 

But,  tost  in  rage,  it  flew  without  a wound, 

High  o’er  the  foe,  and  guiltless  pierc’d  the  ground. 
Not  so  Azuriel’s : with  unerring  aim 
Too  near  the  needle-pointed  javelin  came, 

Drove  through  the  seven-fold  shield,  and  silken 
vest, 

And  lightly  ras’d  the  lover’s  ivory  breast. 

Rous’d  at  the  smart,  and  rising  to  the  blow, 

With  his  keen  sword  he  cleaves  his  fairy  foe, 
Sheer  from  the  shoulder  to  the  waste  he  cleaves, 
And  of  one  arm  the  tottering  trunk  bereaves. 


144 


THE  POEMS 


His  useless  steel  brave  Albion  wields  no 
more, 

But  sternly  smiles,  and  thinks  the  combat  o’er : 
So  had  it  been,  had  aught  of  mortal  strain, 

Or  less  than  fairy,  felt  the  deadly  pain. 

But  empyreal  forms,  howe’er  in  fight 
Gash’d  and  dismember’d,  easily  unite. 

As  some  frail  cup  of  China’s  purest  mould, 

With  azure  varnish’d,  and  bedropt  with  gold, 
Though  broke,  if  cur’d  by  some  nice  virgin’s 
hands, 

In  its  old  strength  and  pristine  beauty  stands ; 
The  tumults  of  the  boiling  Bohea  braves, 

And  holds  secure  the  coffee’s  sable  waves : 

So  did  Azuriel’s  arm,  if  Fame  say  true, 

Rejoin  the  vital  trunk  whence  first  it  grew ; 

And  whilst  in  wonder  fix’d  poor  Albion  stood, 
Plung’d  the  curs’d  sabre  in  his  heart’s  warm 
blood. 

The  golden  broidery,  tender  Milkah  wove, 

The  breast,  to  Kenna  sacred  and  to  Love, 

Lie  rent  and  mangled,  and  the  gaping  wound 
Pours  out  a flood  of  purple  on  the  ground. 

The  jetty  lustre  sickens  in  his  eyes, 

On  his  cold  cheeks  the  bloomy  freshness  dies  ; 

“ Oh  Kenna,  Kenna,  ’’thrice  he  tried  to  say, 

“ Kenna,  farewell ! ” and  sigh’d  his  soul  away. 
His  fall  the  Dryads  with  loud  shrieks 
deplore, 

By  sister  Naiads  echo’d  from  the  shore, 


OF  TICKELL. 


145 


Thence  down  to  Neptune’s  secret  realms  convey’d, 
Through  grots,  and  glooms,  and  many  a coral 
shade. 

The  sea’s  great  sire,  with  looks  denouncing  war, 
The  trident  shakes,  and  mounts  the  pearly  car  ; 
With  one  stern  frown  the  wide-spread  deep 
deforms, 

And  works  the  madding  ocean  into  storms. 

O’er  foaming  mountains,  and  through  bursting 
tides, 

Now  high,  now  low,  the  bounding  chariot  rides, 
Till  through  the  Thames  in  a loud  whirlwind’s  roar 
It  shoots,  and  lands  him  on  the  destin’d  shore. 

Now  fix’d  on  earth  his  towering  stature  stood, 
Hung  o’er  the  mountains,  and  o’erlook’d  the  wood. 
To  Brumpton’s  Grove  one  ample  stride  he  took, 
(The  valleys  trembled,  and  the  forests  shook,) 
The  next  huge  step  reach’d  the  devoted  shade, 
Where  chok’d  in  blood  was  wretched  Albion  laid : 
Where  now  the  vanquish’d,  with  the  victors  join’d, 
Beneath  the  regal  banners  stood  combin’d. 

Th’  embattled  dwarfs  with  rage  and  scorn  he 
past, 

And  on  their  town  his  eye  vindictive  cast. 

In  deep  foundations  his  strong  trident  cleaves, 
And  high  in  air  th’  uprooted  empire  heaves  ; 

On  his  broad  engine  the  vast  ruin  hung, 

Which  on  the  foe  with  force  divine  he  flung : 
Aghast  the  legions  in  th’  approaching  shade, 

Th’  inverted  spires  and  rocking  domes  survey’d, 
10 


146 


THE  POEMS 


That,  downward  tumbling  on  the  host  below, 
Crush’d  the  whole  nation  at  one  dreadful  blow. 
Towers,  arms,  nymphs,  warriors,  are  together 
lost, 

And  a whole  empire  falls  to  soothe  said  Albion’s 
ghost. 

Such  was  the  period,  long  restrain’d  by  Fate, 
And  such  the  downfall  of  the  fairy  state. 

This  dale,  a pleasing  region,  not  unblest, 

This  dale  possest  they  ; and  had  still  possest ; 
Had  not  their  monarch,  with  a father’s  pride, 
Rent  from  her  lord  th’  inviolable  bride, 

Rash  to  dissolve  the  contract  seal’d  above, 

The  solemn  vows  and  sacred  bonds  of  love. 

Now,  where  his  elves  so  sprightly  danc’d  the 
round, 

No  violet  breathes,  nor  daisy  paints  the  ground, 
His  towers  and  people  fill  one  common  grave, 

A shapeless  ruin,  and  a barren  cave. 

Beneath  huge  hills  of  smoking  piles  he  lay 
Stunn’d  and  confounded  a whole  summer’s 
day, 

At  length  awak’d  (for  what  can  long  restrain 
Unbody ’d  spirits !)  but  awak’d  in  pain : 

And  as  he  saw  the  desolated  wood, 

And  the  dark  den  where  once  his  empire  stood, 
Grief  chill’d  his  heart : to  his  half-open’d  eyes 
In  every  oak  a Neptune  seem’d  to  rise  : 

He  fled : and  left,  with  all  his  trembling  peers, 
The  long  possession  of  a thousand  years. 


OF  TICKELL. 


147 


Through  bush,  through  brake,  through  groves,  and 
gloomy  dales  [vales, 

Through  dank  and  dry,  o’er  streams  and  flowery 
Direct  they  fled  ; but  often  look’d  behind, 

And  stopt  and  started  at  each  rustling  wind. 
Wing’d  with  like  fear,  his  abdicated  bands 
Disperse  and  wander  into  different  lands. 

Part  hid  beneath  the  Peak’s  deep  caverns  lie, 

In  silent  glooms,  impervious  to  the  sky  ; 

Part  on  fair  Avon’s  margin  seek  repose, 

Whose  stream  o’er  Britain’s  midmost  region 
flows, 

Where  formidable  Neptune  never  came, 

And  seas  and  oceans  are  but  known  by  fame : 
Some  to  dark  woods  and  secret  shade  retreat : 
And  some  on  mountains  choose  their  airy  seat. 
There  haply  by  the  ruddy  damsel  seen, 

Or  shepherd-boy,  they  featly  foot  the  green, 
While  from  their  steps  a circling  verdure  springs  ; 
But  fly  from  towns,  and  dread  the  courts  of  kings. 

Meanwhile  said  Kenna,  loth  to  quit  the  grove, 
Hung  o’er  the  body  of  her  breathless  love, 

Try’d  .every  art,  (vain  arts  !)  to  change  his  doom, 
And  vow’d  (vain  vows !)  to  join  him  in  the  tomb. 
What  could  she  do  ? the  Fates  alike  deny 
The  dead  to  live,  or  fairy  forms  to  die. 

An  herb  there  grows  (the  same  old  Homer 1 tells 
Ulysses  bore  to  rival  Circe’s  spells) 


1 Odyss.  Lib.  x. 


148 


THE  POEMS 


Its  root  is  ebon-black,  but  sends  to  light 
A stem  that  bends  with  flow’rets  milky  white, 
Moly'  the  plant,  which  gods  and  fairies  know, 

But  secret  kept  from  mortal  men  below. 

On  his  pale  limbs  its  virtuous  juice  she  shed, 

And  murmur’d  mystic  numbers  o’er  the  dead, 
When  lo ! the  little  shape  by  magic  power 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracted  to  a flower ; 

A flower,  that  first  in  this  sweet  garden  smil’d, 

To  virgins  sacred,  and  the  Snowdrop  styl’d. 

The  new-born  plant  with  sweet  regret  she  view’d, 
Warm’d  with  her  sighs,  and  with  her  tears  bedew’d, 
Its  ripen’d  seeds  from  bank  to  bank  convey’d, 
And  with  her  lover  whiten’d  half  the  shade. 

Thus  won  from  death  each  spring  she  sees  him 
grow, 

And  glorious  in  the  vegetable  snow, 

Which  now  increas’d  through  wide  Britannia’s 
plains, 

Its  parent’s  warmth  and  spotless  name*retains, 
First  leader  of  the  flowery  race  aspires, 

And  foremost  catches  the  Sun’s  genial  fires, 

’Mid  frosts  and  snows  triumphant  dares  appear, 
Mingles  the  seasons,  and  leads  on  the  year. 

Deserted  now  of  all  the  pygmy  race, 

Nor  man  nor  fairy  touch’d  this  guilty  place. 

In  heaps  on  heaps,  for  many  a rolling  age, 

It  lay  accurs’d,  the  mark  of  Neptune’s  rage, 

Till  great  Nassau  recloth’d  the  desert  shade, 
Thence  sacred  to  Britannia’s  monarchs  made. 


OF  TICKELL. 


149 


Twas  then  the  green-rob’d  nymph,  fair  Kenna, 
came, 

(Kenna  that  gave  the  neighbouring  town  its 
name.) 

Proud  when  she  saw  th’  ennobled  garden  shine 
With  nymphs  and  heroes  of  her  lover’s  line, 

She  vow’d  to  grace  the  mansions  once  her  own, 
And  picture  out  in  plants  the  fairy  town. 

To  far-fam’d  Wise  her  flight  unseen  she  sped, 
And  with  gay  prospects  fill’d  the  craftsman’s  head, 
Soft  in  his  fancy  drew  a pleasing  scheme, 

And  plann’d  that  landscape  in  a morning  dream. 

With  the  sweet  view  the  sire  of  Gardens  fir’d, 
Attempts  the  labour  by  the  nymph  inspir’d, 

The  walls  and  streets  in  rows  of  yew  designs, 
And  forms  the  town  in  all  its  ancient  lines  ; 

The  corner  trees  he  lifts  more  high  in  air, 

And  girds  the  palace  with  a verdant  square  ; 

Nor  knows,  while  round  he  views  the  rising  scenes, 
He  builds  a city  as  he  plants  his  greens. 

• With  a sad  pleasure  the  aerial  maid 
This  image  of  her  ancient  realms  survey’d, 

How  chang’d,  how  fall’n  from  its  primeval  pride ! 
Yet  here  each  moon,  the  hour  her  lover  died, 
Each  moon  his  solemn  obsequies  she  pays, 

And  leads  the  dance  beneath  pale  Cynthia’s  rays  ; 
Pleas’d  in  these  shades  to  head  her  fairy  train, 
And  grace  the  groves  where  Albion’s  kinsmen 
reign. 


150 


THE  POEMS 


TO  A LADY  BEFORE  MARRIAGE. 

Oh  ! form’d  by  Nature,  and  refin’d  by  Art, 

With  charms  to  win,  and  sense  to  fix  the  heart ! 
By  thousands  sought,  Clotilda,  canst  thou  free 
Thy  croud  of  captives  and  descend  to  me  ? 
Content  in  shades  obscure  to  waste  thy  life, 

A hidden  beauty  and  a country  wife  ? 

0 ! listen  while  thy  summers  are  my  theme, 

Ah  ! soothe  thy  partner  in  his  waking  dream  ! 

In  some  small  hamlet  on  the  lonely  plain,  [train ; 
Where  Thames,  through  meadows,  rolls  his  mazy 
Or  where  high  Windsor,  thick  with  greens  array’d 
Waves  his  old  oaks,  and  spreads  his  ample  shade, 
F ancy  has  figur’d  out  our  calm  retreat ; 

Already  round  the  visionary  seat 
Our  limes  begin  to  shoot,  our  flowers  to  spring, 
The  brooks  to  murmur,  and  the  birds  to  sing. 
Where  dost  thou  lie,  thou  thinly-peopled  green, 
Thou  nameless  lawn,  and  village  yet  unseen, 
Where  sons,  contented  with  their  native  ground, 
Ne’er  travell’d  further  than  ten  furlongs  round, 
And  the  tann’d  peasant,  and  his  ruddy  bride, 
Were  born  together,  and  together  died  ; 


OF  TICKELL. 


151 


Where  early  larks  best  tell  the  morning  light, 
And  only  Philomel  disturbs  the  night  ? 

'Midst  gardens  here  my  humble  pile  shall  rise, 
With  sweets  surrounded  of  ten  thousand  dies  ; 

All  savage  where  th’  embroider’d  gardens  end, 
The  haunt  of  echoes,  shall  my  woods  ascend ; 
And  oh  ! if  Heaven  th’  ambitious  thought  approve, 
A rill  shall  warble  cross  the  gloomy  grove, 

A little  rill,  o’er  pebbly  beds  convey’d, 

Gush  down  the  steep,  and  glitter  through  the  glade. 
What  cheering  scents  these  bordering  banks 
exhale ! 

How  loud  that  heifer  lows  from  yonder  vale ! 
That  thrush  how  shrill ! his  note  so  clear,  so  high, 
He  drowns  each  feather’d  minstrel  of  the  sky. 
Here  let  me  trace  beneath  the  purpled  morn, 
The  deep-mouth’d  beagle,  and  the  sprightly 
horn ; 

Or  lure  the  trout  with  well  dissembled  flies, 

Or  fetch  the  fluttering  partridge  from  the  skies. 
Nor  shall  thy  hand  disdain  to  crop  the  vine, 

The  downy  peach,  or  flavour’d  nectarine ; 

Or  rob  the  bee-hive  of  its  golden  hoard, 

And  bear  th’  unbought  luxuriance  to  thy  board. 
Sometimes  my  books  by  day  shall  kill  the  hours, 
While  from  thy  needle  rise  the  silken  flowers, 
And  thou,  by  turns,  to  ease  my  feeble  sight, 
Resume  the  volume,  and  deceive  the  night. 

Oh ! when  I mark  thy  twinkling  eyes  opprest, 
Soft  whispering,  let  me  warn  my  love  to  rest ; 


152 


THE  POEMS 


Then  watch  thee,  charm’d,  while  sleep  locks  every 
sense, 

And  to  sweet  Heaven  commend  thy  innocence. 
Thus  reign’d  our  fathers  o’er  the  rural  fold, 

Wise,  hale,  and  honest,  in  the  days  of  old ; 

Till  courts  arose,  where  substance  pays  for  show, 
And  specious  joys  are  bought  with  real  woe. 

See  Flavia’s  pendants  large,  well  spread  and  right ; 
The  ear  that  wears  them  hears  a fool  each  night. 
Mark  how  th’  embroider’d  col’nel  sneaks  away, 
To  shun  the  withering  dame  that  made  him  gay  ; 
That  knave,  to  gain  a title,  lost  his  fame ; 

That  rais’d  his  credit  by  a daughter’s  shame  ; 
This  coxcomb’s  ribband  cost  him  half  his  land, 
And  oaks,  unnumber’d,  bought  that  fool  a wand. 
Fond  man,  as  all  his  sorrows  were  too  few, 
Acquires  strange  wants  that  nature  never  knew, 
By  midnight  lamps  he  emulates  the  day, 

And  sleeps,  perverse,  the  cheerful  suns  away  ; 
From  goblets  high-embost,  his  wine  must  glide, 
Round  his  clos’d  sight  the  gorgeous  curtain  slide ; 
Fruits  ere  their  time  to  grace  his  pomp  must 
rise, 

And  three  untasted  courses  glut  his  eyes. 

For  this  are  nature’s  gentle  calls  withstood, 

The  voice  of  conscience,  and  the  bonds  of  blood ; 
This  wisdom  thy  reward  for  every  pain, 

And  this  gay  glory  all  thy  mighty  gain. 

Fair  phantoms  woo’d  and  scorn’d  from  age  to  age, 
Since  bards  began  to  laugh,  and  priests  to  rage. 


OF  TICKELL. 


153 


And  yet,  just  curse  on  man’s  aspiring  kind  ! 
Prone  to  ambition,  to  example  blind, 

Our  children’s  children  shall  our  steps  pursue, 
And  the  same  errors  be  for  ever  new. 

Meanwhile  in  hope  a guiltless  country  swain, 

My  reed  with  warblings  cheers  the  imagin’d  plain. 
Hail  humble  shades,  where  truth  and  silence 
dwell ! 

The  noisy  town  and  faithless  court  farewell ! 
Farewell  ambition,  once  my  darling  flame ! 

The  thirst  of  lucre,  and  the  charm  of  fame  ! 

In  life’s  by-road,  that  winds  through  paths  un- 
known, 

My  days,  though  number’d,  shall  be  all  my  own. 
Here  shall  they  end,  (0  ! might  they  twice 
begin) 

And  all  be  white  the  Fates  intend  to  spin. 


154 


THE  POEMS 


A POEM 

IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  HORNBOOK. 

WRITTEN  UNDER  A FIT  OF  THE  GOUT. 

Magni  magna  patrant,  nos  non  nisi  ludicra 

Podagra  hsec  otia  fecit. 

Hail  ! ancient  Book,  most  venerable  code ! 
Learning’s  first  cradle,  .and  its  last  abode  ! 

The  huge  unnumber’d  volumes  which  we  see, 
By  lazy  plagiaries  are  stol’n  from  thee. 

Yet  future  times,  to  thy  sufficient  store, 

Shall  ne’er  presume  to  add  one  letter  more. 

Thee  will  I sing,  in  comely  wainscot  bound, 
And  golden  verge  enclosing  thee  around ; 

The  faithful  horn  before,  from  age  to  age, 
Preserving  thy  invaluable  page  ; 

Behind,  thy  patron  saint  in  armour  shines, 

With  sword  and  lance,  to  guard  thy  sacred  lines 
Beneath  his  courser’s  feet  the  dragon  lies 
Transfix’d  ; his  blood  thy  scarlet  cover  dies  ; 
Th’  instructive  handle ’s  at  the  bottom  fix’d, 
Lest  wrangling  critics  should  pervert  the  text. 


OF  TICKELL. 


155 


Or  if  to  gingerbread  thou  shalt  descend, 

And  liquorish  learning  to  thy  babes  extend ; 

Or  sugar’d  plane,  o’erspread  with  beaten  gold, 
Does  the  sweet  treasure  of  thy  letters  hold ; 

Thou  still  shalt  be  my  song Apollo’s  choir 

I scorn  t’  invoke  ; Cadmus  my  verse  inspire  : 
’Twas  Cadmus  who  the  first  materials  brought 
Of  all  the  learning  which  has  since  been  taught, 
Soon  made  complete  ! for  mortals  ne’er  shall  know* 
More  than  contain’d  of  old  the  Christ-cross  row ; 
What  masters  dictate,  or  what  doctors  preach, 
Wise  matrons  hence,  e’en  to  our  children  teach : 
But  as  the  name  of  every  plant  and  fiower 
(So  common  that  each  peasant  knows  its  power) 
Physicians  in  mysterious  cant  express, 

T’  amuse  the  patient,  and  enhance  their  fees  ; 

So  from  the  letters  of  our  native  tongue, 

Put  in  Greek  scrawls,  a mystery  too  is  sprung, 
Schools  are  erected,  puzzling  grammars  made, 
And  artful  men  strike  out  a gainful  trade  ; 
Strange  characters  adorn  the  learned  gate, 

And  heedless  youth  catch  at  the  shining  bait ; 
The  pregnant  boys  the  noisy  charms  declare, 

And  Tau’s,  and  Delta’s,1  make  their  mothers  stare; 
Th’  uncommon  sounds  amaze  the  vulgar  ear, 

And  what ’s  uncommon  never  costs  too  dear. 

Yet  in  all  tongues  the  Hornbook  is  the  same, 
Taught  by  the  Grecian  master,  or  the  English  dame. 


1 The  Greek  letters  T,  A. 


156 


THE  POEMS 


But  how  shall  I thy  endless  virtues  tell, 

In  which  thou  dost  all  other  books  excel  ? 

No  greasy  thumbs  thy  spotless  leaf  can  soil, 

Nor  crooked  dogsears  thy  smooth  corners  spoil ; 
In  idle  pages  no  errata  stand, 

To  tell  the  blunders  of  the  printer’s  hand : 

No  fulsome  dedication  here  is  writ, 

Nor  flattering  verse,  to  praise  the  author’s  wit : 
The  margin  with  no  tedious  notes  is  vex’d, 

Nor  various  reading  to  confound  the  text : 

All  parties  in  thy  literal  sense  agree, 

Thou  perfect  centre  of  concordancy ! 

Search  we  the  records  of  an  ancient  date, 

Or  read  what  modern  histories  relate, 

They  all  proclaim  what  wonders  have  been  done 
By  the  plain  letters  taken  as  they  run : 

“ Too  high  the  floods  of  passion  us’d  to  roll, 

And  rend  the  Homan  youth’s  impatient  soul ; 

His  hasty  anger  furnish’d  scenes  of  blood, 

And  frequent  deaths  of  worthy  men  ensued : 

In  vain  were  all  the  weaker  methods  tried, 

None  could  suffice  to  stem  the  furious  tide, 

Thy  sacred  line  he  did  but  once  repeat, 

And  laid  the  storm,  and  cool’d  the  raging  heat.”  1 
Thy  heavenly  notes,  like  angels’  music,  cheer 
Departing  souls,  and  soothe  the  dying  ear. 

An  aged  peasant,  on  his  latest  bed, 

Wish’d  for  a friend  some  godly  book  to  read ; 

1 The  advice  given  to  Augustus,  by  Athenodorus  the  stoie 
philosopher. 


OF  TICKELL. 


157 


The  pious  grandson  thy  known  handle  takes, 

And  (eyes  lift  up)  this  savory  lecture  makes : 
u Great  A,”  he  gravely  read ; the  important 
sound 

The  empty  walls  and  hollow  roof  rebound : 

Th’  expiring  ancient  rear’d  his  drooping  head, 
And  thank’d  his  stars  that  Hodge  had  learn’d  to 
read. 

“ Great  B,”  the  younker  bawls : O heavenly  breath ! 
What  ghostly  comforts  in  the  hour  of  death  ! 
What  hopes  I feel ! “ Great  C,”  pronounc’d  the 
boy; 

The  grandsire  dies  with  ecstasy  of  joy. 

Yet  in  some  lands  such  ignorance  abounds, 
Whole  parishes  scarce  know  thy  useful  sounds. 
Of  Essex-Hundreds  Fame  gives  this  report, 

But  Fame,  I ween,  says  many  things  in  sport. 
Scarce  lives  the  man  to  whom  thou’rt  quite  un- 
known, 

Though  few  th’  extent  of  thy  vast  empire  own. 
Whatever  wonders  magic  spells  can  do 
On  earth,  in  air,  in  sea,  in  shades  below  ; 

What  -words  profound  and  dark  wise  Mahomet 
spoke, 

When  his  old  cow  an  angel’s  figure  took ; 

What  strong  enchantments  sage  Canidia  knew, 
Or  Horace  sung,  fierce  monsters  to  subdue, 

0 mighty  Book,  are  all  contain’d  in  you ! 

All  human  arts,  and  every  science  meet, 

Within  the  limits  of  thy  single  sheet : 


158 


THE  POEMS 


From  thy  vast  root  all  learning’s  branches  grow, 
And  all  her  streams  from  thy  deep  fountain  flow. 
And,  lo  ! while  thus  thy  wonders  I indite, 
Inspir’d  I feel  the  power  of  which  I write  ; 

The  gentler  gout  his  former  rage  forgets, 

Less  frequent  now,  and  less  severe  the  fits : 
Loose  grew  the  chains  which  bound  my  useless 
feet ; 

Stiffness  and  pain  from  every  joint  retreat ; 
Surprising  strength  comes  every  moment  on, 

I stand,  I step,  I walk,  and  now  I run. 

Here  let  me  cease,  my  hobbling  numbers  stop. 
And  at  thy  handle 1 hand  my  crutches  up. 


THERISTES,  OR  THE  LORDLING. 

THE  GRANDSON  OF  A BRICKLAYER,  GREAT- 
GRANDSON  OF  A BUTCHER. 

Theristes  of  amphibious  breed, 

Motley  fruit  of  mongrel  seed  : 

By  the  dam  from  lordlings  sprung, 

By  the  sire  exhal’d  from  dung : 


1 Votiva  Tabula.  Hop.. 


OF  TICKELL. 


159 


Think  on  every  vice  in  both, 

Look  on  him,  and  see  their  growth. 

View  him  on  the  mother’s  side, 

Fill’d  with  falsehood,  spleen,  and  pride, 
Positive  and  overbearing, 

Changing  still,  and  still  adhering, 

Spiteful,  peevish,  rude,  untoward, 

Fierce  in  tongue,  in  heart  a coward ; 

When  his  friends  he  most  is  hard  on, 
Cringing  comes  to  beg  their  pardon ; 
Reputation  ever  tearing, 

Ever  dearest  friendship  swearing ; 
Judgment  weak,  and  passion  strong  ; 
Always  various,  always  wrong ; 
Provocation  never  waits, 

Where  he  loves,  or  where  he  hates ; 

Talks  whate’er  comes  in  his  head, 

Wishes  it  were  all  unsaid. 

Let  me  now  the  vices  trace, 

From  his  father’s  scoundrel  race, 

Who  could  give  the  looby  such  airs  ? 

Were  they  masons  ? Were  they  butchers  ? 
Herald  lend  the  Muse  an  answer, 

From  his  atavus  and  grandsire  ! 

This  was  dexterous  at  his  trowel, 

That  was  bred  to  kill  a cow  well : 

Hence  the  greasy  clumsy  mien, 

In  his  dress  and  figure  seen  : 

Hence  that  mean  and  fordid  soul, 

Like  his  body,  rank  and  foul : 


THE  POEMS 


Hence  that  wild  suspicious  peep, 
Like  a rogue  that  steals  a sheep  : 
Hence  he  learn’d  the  butcher’s  guile, 
How  to  cut  a throat  and  smile : 

Like  a butcher  doom’d  for  life, 

In  his  mouth  to  wear  his  knife : 
Hence  he  draws  his  daily  food, 

From  his  tenant’s  vital  blood. 

Lastly,  let  his  gifts  be  tried, 
Borrow’d  from  the  mason-side. 

Some,  perhaps,  may  think  him  able 
In  the  state  to  build  a Babel ; 

Could  we  place  him  in  a station 
To  destroy  the  old  foundation. 

True,  indeed,  I should  be  gladder 
Could  he  learn  to  mount  a ladder. 
May  he  at  his  latter  end 
Mount  alive,  and  dead  descend. 

In  him  tell  me,  which  prevail, 

F emale  vices  most,  or  male  ? 

What  produc’d  them,  can  you  tell  ? 
Human  race,  or  imp  of  Hell  ? 


OF  TICKELL. 


161 


OXFORD,  A P0EM,1 

INSCRIBED  TO  LORD  LONSDALE,1 2  1707. 

Unum  opus  est  intactae  Palladis  urbem 
Carmine  perpetuo  celebrare — 

Hor.  i.  Od.  7. 

Whilst  you,  my  lord,  adorn  that  stately  seat, 
Where  shining  Beauty  makes  her  soft  retreat, 
Enjoying  all  those  graces,  uncontroll’d, 

Which  noblest  youths  would  die  but  to  behold ; 
Whilst  you  inhabit  Lowther’s  awful  pile, 

A structure  worthy  of  the  founder’s  toil, 


1 Added  by  the  express  direction  of  Dr.  Johnson ; by  whom 
(together  with  another  piece)  it  was  originally  appended  to 
his  Life  of  Tickell,  with  this  introduction:  “ The  two  poems 
which  follow  would  have  been  inserted  in  the  collection,  if  the 
compilers  could  have  obtained  copies  of  them.  To  complete 
the  poetical  works  of  Tickell,  they  are  here  copied  from  the 
Select  Collection  of  Miscellaneous  Poems,  1780.”  N. 

2 Richard,  second  Lord  Viscount  Lonsdale.  He  died  of  the 
smallpox,  December  1,  1713.  N. 

11  * 


162 


THE  POEMS 


Amaz’d  we  see  the  former  Lonsdale3  shine 
In  each  descendant  of  his  noble  line  : 

But  most  transported  and  surpris’d  we  view 
His  ancient  glories  all  reviv’d  in  you, 

Where  charms  and  virtues  join  their  equal  grace, 
Your  father’s  godlike  soul,  your  mother’s  lovely 
face. 

Me  fortune  and  kind  Heaven’s  indulgent  care 
To  famous  Oxford  and  the  Muses  bear, 

Where,  of  all  ranks,  the  blooming  youths  combine 
To  pay  due  homage  to  the  mighty  Nine, 

And  snatch,  with  smiling  joy,  the  laurel  crown, 
Due  to  the  learned  honours  of  the  gown. 

Here  I,  the  meanest  of  the  tuneful  throng, 

Delude  the  time  with  an  unhallow’d  song, 

Which  thus  my  thanks  to  much-lov’d  Oxford  pays, 
In  no  ungrateful,  though  unartful  lays; 

Where  shall  I first  the  beauteous  scene  disclose, 
And  all  the  gay  variety  expose  ? 

For  wheresoe’er  I turn  my  wondering  eyes, 
Aspiring  towers  and  verdant  groves  arise, 
Immortal  greens  the  smiling  plains  array, 

And  mazy  rivers  murmur  all  the  way. 

0 ! might  your  eyes  behold  each  sparkling  dome, 
And  freely  o’er  the  beauteous  prospect  roam, 


3 Sir  John  Lowther,  one  of  the  early  promoters  of  the 
Revolution,  was  constituted  vice-chamberlain  to  King  William 
^ind  Queen  Mary  on  their  advancement  to  the  throne ; created 
Baron  Lowther  and  Viscount  Lonsdale,  May  28,1696;  and 
appointed  lord  privy-seal  in  1699.  He  died  July  10,  1700.  jV. 


OF  TICKELL. 


163 


Less  ravish’d  your  own  Lowther  you’d  survey, 
Though  pomp  and  state  the  costly  seat  display, 
Where  Art  so  nicely  has  adorn’d  the  place, 

That  Nature’s  aid  might  seem  an  useless  grace  ; 
Yet  Nature’s  smiles  such  various  charms  impart, 
That  vain  and  needless  are  the  strokes  of  Art. 

In  equal  state  our  rising  structures  shine, 

F rain’d  by  such  rules,  and  form’d  by  such  design. 
That  here,  at  once  surpris’d  and  pleas’d,  we  view 
Old  Athens  lost  and  conquer’d  in  the  new ; 

More  sweet  our  shades,  more  fit  our  bright  abodes 
For  warbling  Muses  and  inspiring  Gods. 

Great  Vanbrook’s4  self  might  own  each  artful 
draught 

Equal  to  models  in  his  curious  thought, 

Nor  scorn  a fabric  by  our  plans  to  frame, 

Or  in  immortal  labours  sing  their  fame ; 

Both  ways  he  saves  them  from  destroying  Fate, 
If  he  but  praise  them,  or  but  imitate. 

See,  where  the  sacred  Sheldon’s 5 haughty  dome 
Rivals  the  stately  pomp  of  ancient  Rome, 

Whose  form,  so  great  and  noble,  seems  design’d 
T’  express  the  grandeur  of  its  founder’s  mind. 
Here,  in  one  lofty  building,  we  behold 
Whate’er  the  Latian  pride  could  boast  of  old. 
True,  no  dire  combats  feed  the  savage  eye, 

And  strew  the  sand  with  sportive  cruelty ; 

But,  more  adorn’d  with  what  the  Muse  inspires, 
It  far  outshines  their  bloody  theatres. 

4 Sir  John  Vanbrugh.  N. 


5 The  Theatre.  T. 


164 


THE  POEMS 


Delightful  scene  ! when  here,  in  equal  verse, 

The  youthful  bards  their  godlike  queen  rehearse, 
To  Churchill’s  wreaths  Apollo’s  laurel  join, 

And  sing  the  plains  of  Hockstet  and  Judoign. 

Next  let  the  Muse  record  our  Bodley’s  seat 6, 
Nor  aim  at  numbers,  like  the  subject,  great : 

All  hail,  thou  fabric,  sacred  to  the  Nine, 

Thy  fame  immortal,  and  thy  form  divine  ! 

Who  to  thy  praise  attempts  the  dangerous  flight, 
Should  in  thy  various  tongues  be  taught  to  write  ; 
His  verse,  like  thee,  a lofty  dress  should  wear, 
And  breathe  the  genius  which  inhabits  there ; 
Thy  proper  lays  alone  can  make  thee  live, 

And  pay  that  fame,  which  first  thyself  didst  give. 
So  fountains,  which  through  secret  channels  flow, 
And  pour  above  the  floods  they  take  below, 

Back  to  their  father  Ocean  urge  their  way, 

And  to  the  sea,  the  streams  it  gave,  repay. 

No  more  we  fear  the  military  rage, 

Nurs’d  up  in  some  obscure  barbarian  age  ; 

Nor  dread  the  ruin  of  our  arts  divine, 

From  thick-skull’d  heroes  of  the  Gothic  line, 
Though  pale  the  Romans  saw  those  arms  advance, 
And  wept  their  learning  lost  in  ignorance. 

Let  brutal  rage  around  its  terrour  spread, 

The  living  murder,  and  consume  the  dead, 

In  impious  fires  let  noblest  writings  burn, 

And  with  their  authors  share  a common  urn  ; 


6 The  Bodleian  Library.  T. 


OF  TICKELL. 


165 


Only,  ye  Fates,  our  lov’d  Bodleian  spare, 

Be  IT,  and  Learning’s  self  shall  be  your  care, 
Here  every  art  and  every  grace  shall  join, 
Collected  Phoebus  here  alone  shall  shine, 

Each  other  seat  be  dark,  and  this  be  all  divine. 
Thus  when  the  Greeks  imperial  Troy  defac’d, 
And  to  the  ground  its  fatal  walls  debas’d, 

In  vain  they  burn  the  work  of  hands  divine, 

And  vow  destruction  to  the  Dardan  line, 

Whilst  good  Aeneas  flies  th’  unequal  wars, 

And,  with  his  guardian  gods,  lulus  bears, 

Old  Troy  for  ever  stands  in  him  alone, 

And  all  the  Phrygian  kings  survive  in  one. 

Here  still  presides  each  sage’s  reverend  shade, 
In  soft  repose  and  easy  grandeur  laid ; 

Their  deathless  works  forbid  their  fame  to  die, 
Nor  Time  itself  their  persons  shall  destroy, 
Preserv’d  within  the  living  gallery.7 
What  greater  gift  could  bounteous  Heaven  bestow, 
Than  to  be  seen  above,  and  read  below  ? 

With  deep  respect  I bend  my  duteous  head, 

To  see  the  faithful  likeness  of  the  dead  ; 

But  O ! what  Muse  can  equal  warmth  impart  ? 
The  painter’s  skill  transcends  the  poet’s  art. 
When  round  the  pictur’d  founders  I descry, 

With  goodness  soft,  and  great  with  majesty, 

So  much  of  life  the  artful  colours  give, 

Scarce  more  within  their  colleges  they  live  ; 


7 The  Picture  Gallery.  T. 


166 


THE  POEMS 


My  blood  begins  in  wilder  rounds  to  roll, 

And  pleasing  tumults  combat  in  my  soul ; 

An  humble  awe  my  downcast  eyes  betray, 

And  only  less  than  adoration  pay. 

Such  were  the  Roman  Fathers,  when,  o’ercome, 
They  saw  the  Gauls  insult  o’er  conquer’d  Rome  ; 
Each  captive  seem’d  the  haughty  victor’s  lord, 
And  prostrate  chiefs  their  aw7ful  slaves  ador’d. 

Such  art  as  this  adorns  your  Lowrther’s  hall, 
Where  feasting  gods  carouse  upon  the  wall ; 

The  nectar,  which  creating  paint  supplies, 
Intoxicates  each  pleas’d  spectator’s  eyes  ; 

Who  viewr,  amaz’d,  the  figures  heavenly  fair, 

And  think  they  breathe  the  true  Elysian  air. 
With  strokes  so  bold,  great  Yerrio’s  hand  has 
drawn 

The  gods  in  dwellings  brighter  than  their  owrn. 

Fir’d  with  a thousand  raptures,  I behold. 

What  lively  features  grac’d  each  bard  of  old ; 
Such  lips,  I think,  did  guide  his  charming 
tongue, 

In  such  an  air  as  this  the  poet  sung ; 

Such  eyes  as  these  glow’d  with  the  sacred  fire, 
And  hands  like  these  employ’d  the  vocal  lyre. 
Quite  ravish’d,  I pursue  each  image  o’er, 

And  scarce  admire  their  deathless  labours  more. 
See  wThere  the  gloomy  Scaliger  appears, 

Each  shade  is  critic,  and  each  feature  sneers ; 
The  artful  Ben  so  smartly  strikes  the  eye, 

I more  than  see  a fancy’d  comedy ; 


OF  TICKELL. 


167 


The  muddy  Scotus  crowns  the  motley  show. 

And  metaphysics  cloud  his  wrinkled  brow. 

But  distant  awe  invades  my  beating  breast, 

To  see  great  Ormond  in  the  paint  exprest ; 

With  fear  I view  the  figure  from  afar, 

Which  burns  with  noble  ardour  for  the  war  ; 

But  near  approaches  free  my  doubting  mind, 

To  view  such  sweetness  with  such  grandeur  join’d. 

Here  studious  heads  the  graver  tablet  showrs, 
And  there  with  martial  warmth  the  picture  glows  ; 
The  blooming  youth  here  boasts  a brighter  hue, 
And  painted  virgins  far  outshine  the  true. 

Hail,  Colours,  which  with  Nature  bear  a strife, 
And  only  want  a voice  to  perfect  life  ! 

The  wondering  stranger  makes  a sudden  stand, 
And  pays  low  homage  to  the  lovely  band ; 

Within  each  frame  a real  fair  believes, 

And  vainly  thinks  the  mimic  canvas  lives ; 

Till,  undeceiv’d,  he  quits  th’  enchanting  shew, 
Pleas’d  with  the  art,  though  he  laments  it  too. 

So  when  his  Juno  bold  Ixion  wroo’d, 

And  aim’d  at  pleasures  worthy  of  a god, 

A beauteous  cloud  was  form’d  by  angry  Jove, 

Fit  to  invite,  though  not  indulge  his  love  ; 

The  mortal  thought  he  saw  his  goddess  shine, 
And  all  the  lying  graces  look’d  divine  ; 

But  when  with  heat  he  clasp’d  her  fancied  charms, 
The  empty  vapour  baulk’d  his  eager  arms. 

Loth  to  depart,  I leave  tli’  inviting  scene, 

Yet  scarce  forbear  to  view  it  o’er  again  ; 


168 


THE  POEMS 


But  still  new  objects  give  a new  delight, 

And  various  prospects  bless  the  wandering  sight. 

Aloft  in  state  the  airy  towers  arise, 

And  with  new  lustre  deck  the  wondering  skies ! 
Lo  ! to  what  height  the  schools  ascending  reach, 
Built  with  that  art  which  they  alone  can  teach ; 
The  lofty  dome  expands  her  spacious  gate, 
Where  all  the  decent  graces  jointly  wait ; 

In  every  shape  the  god  of  art  resorts, 

And  crowds  of  sages  fill  th’  extended  courts. 

With  wonders  fraught  the  bright  Museum  see, 
Itself  the  greatest  curiosity  ! 

Where  Nature’s  choicest  treasure,  all  combin’d, 
Delight  at  once,  and  quite  confound  the  mind ; 
Ten  thousand  splendours  strike  the  dazzled  eye, 
And  form  on  Earth  another  galaxy. 

Here  colleges  in  sweet  confusion  rise, 

There  temples  seem  to  reach  their  native  skies ; 
Spires,  towers,  and  groves,  compose  the  various 
shew, 

And  mingled  prospects  charm  the  doubting  view  ; 
Who  can  deny  their  characters  divine, 

Without  resplendent,  and  inspir’d  within  ? 

But,  since  above  my  weak  and  artless  lays, 

Let  their  own  poets  sing  their  equal  praise. 

One  labour  more  my  grateful  verse  renews, 
And  rears  aloft  the  low-descending  Muse ; 

The  building, s parent  of  my  young  essays, 

8 Queen’s  College  Library.  See  the  Poem  on  Queen  Caro 


OF  TICKELL. 


169 


Asks  in  return  a tributary  praise. 

Pillars  sublime  bear  up  the  learned  weight, 

And  antique  sages  tread  the  pompous  height ; 
Whilst  guardian  Muses  shade  the  happy  piles, 
And  all  around  diffuse  propitious  smiles. 

Here  Lancaster,  adorn’d  with  every  grace, 

Stands  chief  in  merit,  as  the  chief  in  place  : 

To  his  lov’d  name  our  earliest  lays  belong, 

The  theme  at  once,  and  patron  of  our  song. 

Long  may  he  o’er  his  mucli-lov’d  Queen’s  preside, 
Our  arts  encourage,  and  our  counsels  guide  ; 

Till  after-ages,  fill’d  with  glad  surprise, 

Behold  his  image  all  majestic  rise, 

Where  now  in  pomp  a venerable  band, 

Princes  and  queens  and  holy  fathers,  stand. 

Good  Egglesfield 9 claims  homage  from  the  eye, 
And  the  hard  stone  seems  soft  with  piety  ; 

The  mighty  monarchs  still  the  same  appear, 

And  every  marble  frown  provokes  the  war ; 
Whilst  rugged  rocks,  mark’d  with  Philippa’s  face, 
Soften  to  charms,  and  glow  with  new-born  grace. 
A sightless  noble  did  the  warriors  yield, 
Transform’d  to  statues  by  the  Gorgon  shield ; 
Distorting  fear  the  coward’s  form  confest, 

And  fury  seem’d  to  heave  the  hero’s  breast ; 

The  lifeless  rocks  each  various  thought  betray’d, 
And  all  the  soul  was  in  the  stone  display’d. 

line’s  rebuilding  the  Lodgings  of  the  Black  Prince  and  Henry 
V.  p.  101,  the  other  of  the  “ two  poems”  alluded  to  in  p.  130.  N. 
9 Robert  Egglesfield,  B.  D.  the  founder,  1340.  N. 


170 


THE  POEMS 


Too  high,  my  verse ! has  been  thy  daring  flight, 
Thy  softer  numbers  now  the  groves  invite, 

Where  silent  shades  provoke  the  speaking  lyre, 
And  cheerful  objects  happy  songs  inspire, 

At  once  bestow  rewards,  and  thoughts  infuse, 
Compose  a garland,  and  supply  a Muse. 

Behold  around,  and  see  the  living  green 
In  native  colours  paints  a blooming  scene  ; 

The  eternal  buds  no  deadly  Winter  fear, 

But  scorn  the  coldest  season  of  the  year ; 

Apollo  sure  will  bless  the  happy  place, 

Which  his  own  Daphne  condescends  to  grace  ; 
For  here  the  everlasting  laurels  grow, 

In  every  grotto,  and  on  every  brow. 

Prospects  so  gay  demand  a Congreve’s  strains, 
To  call  the  gods  and  nymphs  upon  the  plains ; 
Pan  yields  his  empire  o’er  the  sylvan  throng, 
Pleas’d  to  submit  to  his  superior  song ; 

Great  Denham’s  genius  looks  with  rapture  down, 
And  Spenser’s  shade  resigns  the  rural  crown. 

Fill’d  with  great  thoughts,  a thousand  sages  rove 
Through  every  field  and  solitary  grove ; 

Whose  souls,  ascending  an  exalted  height, 
Out-soar  the  drooping  Muse’s  vulgar  flight, 

That  longs  to  see  her  darling  votaries  laid 
Beneath  the  covert  of  some  gentle  shade, 

Where  purling  Streams  and  warbling  birds  conspire 
To  aid  th’  enchantments  of  the  trembling  lyre. 

Bear  me,  some  god,  to  Christ-Church,  royal  seat, 
And  lay  me  softly  in  the  green  retreat, 


OF  TICKELL. 


171 


Where  Aldrich  holds  o’er  Wit  the  sovereign  power. 
And  crowns  the  poets  which  he  taught  before. 

To  Aldrich  Britain  owes  her  tuneful  Boyle, 

The  noblest  trophy  of  the  conquer’d  isle  ; 

Who  adds  new  warmth,  to  our  poetic  fire, 

And  gives  to  England  the  Hibernian  lyre. 
Philips,  by  Phoebus  and  his  Aldrich  taught, 

Sings  with  that  heat  wherewith  his  Churchill 
fought, 

Unfetter’d,  in  great  Milton’s  strain  he  writes, 
Like  Milton’s  angels  whilst  his  hero  fights ; 
Pursues  the  bard,  whilst  he  with  honour  can, 
Equals  the  poet,  and  excels  the  man.  [around, 
O’er  all  the  plains,  the  streams,  and  woods 
The  pleasing  lays  of  sweetest  bards  resound  ; 

A faithful  echo  every  note  returns, 

And  listening  river-gods  neglect  their  urns. 

When  Codrington  1 and  Steele  their  verse  unrein, 
And  form  an  easy,  unaffected  strain, 

A double  wreath  of  laurel  binds  their  brow, 

As  they  are  poets  and  are  warriors  too. 

Trapp’s  lofty  scenes  in  gentle  numbers  flow, 

Like  Dryden  great,  as  soft  as  moving  Howe. 
When  youthful  Harrison,2  with  tuneful  skill 
Makes  Woodstock  Park  scarce  yield  to  Cooper’s 
Hill ; 

Old  Chaucer  from  th’  Elysian  Fields  looks  down, 

1 The  great  benefactor  to  All-souls  College.  A. 

2 Of  whom,  see  Select  Collection,  vol  iv.  p.  180.  A. 


172 


THE  POEMS 


And  sees  at  length  a genius  like  his  own  ; 
Charm’d  with  his  lays,  which  reach  the  shades 
below, 

Fair  Rosamonda  intermits  her  woe, 

Forgets  the  anguish  of  an  injur’d  soul, 

The  fatal  poignard,  and  envenom’d  bowl. 

Apollo  smiles  on  Magd’len’s  peaceful  bowers, 
Perfumes  the  air,  and  paints  the  grot  with  flowers, 
Where  Yalden  learn’d  to  gain  the  myrtle  crown, 
And  every  Muse  was  fond  of  Addison. 
Applauded  man  ! for  weightier  trusts  design’d, 
For  once  disdain  not  to  unbend  thy  mind ; 

Thy  mother  Isis  and  her  groves  rehearse, 

A subject  not  unworthy  of  thy  verse  ; 

So  Latian  fields  will  cease  to  boast  thy  praise, 
And  yield  to  Oxford,  painted  in  thy  lays : 

And  when  the  age  to  come,  from  envy  free, 
What  thou  to  Yirgil  giv’st  shall  give  to  thee, 

Isis,  immortal  by  the  poet’s  skill, 

“ Shall,  in  the  smooth  description,  murmur  still 3 ; ” 
New  beauties  shall  adorn  our  sylvan  scene, 

And  in  thy  numbers  grow  for  ever  green. 

Danby’s  fam’d  gift 4 such  verse  as  thine  requires, 
Exalted  raptures,  and  celestial  fires  ; 

Apollo  here  should  plenteously  impart, 

As  well  his  singing,  as  his  curing  art ; 

3 Letter  from  Italy,  by  Mr.  Addison.  T. 

4 The  Physic-garden  at  Oxford.  This  hint  was  happily 
taken  np  in  1713,  by  Dr.  Evans.  See  Select  Collection,  1780, 
vol.  iii.  p.  145.  N. 


OF  TICKELL. 


173 


Nature  herself  the  healing  garden  loves, 

Which  kindly  her  declining  strength  improves, 
Baffles  the  strokes  of  unrelenting  Death, 

Can  break  his  arrows,  and  can  blunt  his  teeth. 
How  sweet  the  landscape ! where,  in  living  trees, 
Here  frowns  a vegetable  Hercules  ! 

There  fam’d  Achilles  learns  to  live  again ; 

And  looks  yet  angry  in  the  mimic  scene ; 

Here  artful  birds,  which  blooming  arbours  show 
Seem  to  fly  higher,  whilst  they  upwards  grow, 
From  the  same  leaves  both  arms  and  warriors 
rise, 

And  every  bough  a different  charm  supplies. 

So  when  our  world  the  great  Creator  made, 
And,  unadorn’d,  the  sluggish  chaos  laid, 

Horrour  and  Beauty  own’d  their  sire  the  same, 
And  Form  itself  from  Parent  Matter  came, 

That  lumpish  mass  alone  was  source  of  all, 

And  Bards  and  Themes  had  one  original. 

In  vain  the  groves  demand  my  longer  stay, 
The  gentle  Isis  wafts  the  Muse  away ; 

With  ease  the  river  guides  her  wandering  stream, 
And  hastes  to  mingle  with  uxorious  Thame, 
Attempting  poets  on  her  banks  lie  down, 

And  quaff,  inspir’d,  the  better  Helicon, 
Harmonious  strains  adorn  their  various  themes, 
Sweet  as  the  banks,  and  flowing  as  the  streams. 
Bless’d  we,  whom  bounteous  Fortune  here  has 
thrown. 

And  made  the  various  blessings  all  our  own ! 


174 


THE  POEMS 


Nor  crowns,  nor  globes,  the  pageantry  of  state, 
Upon  our  humble,  easy  slumbers  wait ; 

Nor  aught  that  is  Ambition’s  lofty  theme 
Disturbs  our  sleep,  and  gilds  the  gaudy  dream. 
Touch’d  by  no  ills  which  vex  th’  unhappy  great, 
We  only  read  the  changes  in  the  state, 
Triumphant  Marlborough’s  arms  at  distance  hear, 
And  learn  from  Fame  the  rough  events  of  war  ; 
With  pointed  rhymes  the  Gallic  tyrant  pierce, 
And  make  the  cannon  thunder  in  our  verse. 

See  how  the  matchless  youth  their  hours  im- 
prove, 

And  in  the  glorious  way  to  knowledge  move  ! 
Eager  for  fame,  prevent  the  rising  Sun, 

And  watch  the  midnight  labours  of  the  Moon. 
Not  tender  years  their  bold  attempts  restrain, 
Who  leave  dull  Time,  and  hasten  into  man, 

Pure  to  the  soul,  and  pleasing  to  the  eyes, 

Like  angels  youthful,  and  like  angels  wise. 

Some  learn  the  mighty  deeds  of  ages  gone, 
And,  by  the  lives  of  heroes,  form  their  own ; 

Now  view  the  Granique  chok’d  with  heaps  of 
. slain, 

And  warring  worlds  on  the  Pharsalian  plain  ; 
Now  hear  the  trumpets  clangour  from  afar, 

And  all  the  dreadful  harmony  of  war  ; 

Now  trace  those  secret  tricks  that  lost  a state, 
And  search  the  fine-spun  arts  that  made  it  great, 
Correct  those  errours  that  its  ruin  bred, 

And  bid  some  long-lost  empire  rear  its  ancient  head. 


OF  TICKELL. 


175 


Others,  to  whom  persuasive  arts  belong, 
(Words  in  their  looks,  and  music  on  their  tongue) 
Instructed  by  the  wit  of  Greece  and  Rome, 

Learn  richly  to  adorn  their  native  home  ; 

Whilst  listening  crowds  confess  the  sweet  surprise, 
With  pleasure  in  their  breasts,  and  wonder  in  their 
eyes. 

Here  curious  minds  the  latent  seeds  disclose, 
And  Nature’s  darkest  labyrinths  expose ; 

Whilst  greater  souls  the  distant  worlds  descry, 
Pierce  to  the  out-stretch’d  borders  of  the  sky, 
Enlarge  the  searching  mind,  and  broad  expand  the 
eye. 

O you,  whose  rising  years  so  great  began, 

In  whose  bright  youth  I read  the  shining  man, 

O Lonsdale,  know  what  noblest  minds  approve, 
The  thoughts  they  cherish,  and  the  hearts  they 
love  : 

Let  these  examples  your  young  bosom  fire, 

And  bid  your  soul  to  boundless  height  aspire. 
Methinks  I see  you  in  our  shades  retir’d, 

Alike  admiring,  and  by  all  admir’d : 

Your  eloquence  now  charms  my  ravish’d  ear, 
Which  future  senates  shall  transported  hear, 

Now  mournful  verse  inspires  a pleasing  woe, 

And  now  your  cheeks  with  warlike  fury  glow, 
Whilst  on  the  paper  fancy’d  fields  appear, 

And  prospects  of  imaginary  war  ; 

Your  martial  soul  sees  llockstet’s  fatal  plain, 

Or  fights  the  fam’d  Ramilia  o'er  again. 


176 


THE  POEMS 


But  I in  vain  these  lofty  names  rehearse, 
Above  the  faint  attempts  of  humble  verse, 

Which  Garth  should  in  immortal  strains  design, 
Or  Addison  exalt  with  warmth  divine ; 

A meaner  song  my  tender  voice  requires, 

And  fainter  lays  confess  the  fainter  fires, 

By  Nature  fitted  for  an  humble  theme 
A painted  prospect,  or  a murmuring  stream, 

To  tune  a vulgar  note  in  Echo’s  praise, 

Whilst  Echo’s  self  resounds  the  flattering  lays  ; 
Or,  whilst  I tell  how  Myra’s  charms  surprise, 
Paint  roses  on  her  cheeks,  and  suns  within  her 
eyes. 

O,  did  proportion’d  height  to,  me  belong, 

Great  Anna’s  name  should  grace  th’  ambitious 
song; 

Illustrious  dames  should  round  their  queen  resor.t, 
And  Lonsdale’s  mother  crown  the  splendid  court ; 
Her  noble  son  should  boast  no  vulgar  place, 

But  share  the  ancient  honours  of  his  race ; 

Whilst  each  fair  daughter’s  face  and  conquering 
eyes 

To  Yenus  only  should  submit  the  prize. 

O matchless  beauties  ! more  than  heavenly  fair, 
Your  looks  resistless,  and  divine  your  air, 

Let  your  bright  eyes  their  bounteous  beams  dif- 
fuse, 

And  no  fond  Bard  shall  ask  an  useless  Muse  ; 
Their  kindling  rays  excite  a noble  fire, 

Give  beauty  to  the  song,  and  music  to  the  lyre. 


4 


OF  TICKELL.  177 

This  charming  theme  I ever  could  pursue, 

And  think  the  inspiration  ever  new, 

Did  not  the  god  my  wandering  pen  restrain ; 

And  bring  me  to  his  Oxford  back  again. 

Oxford,  the  goddess  Muse’s  native  home, 
Inspir’d  like  Athens,  and  adorn’d  like  Rome  ! 
Hadst  thou  of  old  been  Learning’s  fam’d  retreat, 
And  pagan  Muses  chose  thy  lovely  seat, 

0,  how  unbounded  had  their  fiction  been  ! 

What  fancy’d  visions  had  adorn’d  the  scene  ! 
Upon  each  hill  a sylvan  Pan  had  stood, 

And  every  thicket  boasted  of  a god  ; 

Satyrs  had  frisk’d  in  each  poetic  grove, 

And  not  a stream  without  its  nymphs  could  move; 
Each  summit  had  the  train  of  Muses  show’d, 

And  Hippocrene  in  every  fountain  flow’d ; 

The  tales,  adorn’d  with  each  poetic  grace, 

Had  look’d  almost  as  charming  as  the  place. 

Ev’n  now  we  hear  the  world  with  transports 
own 

Those  fictions  by  more  wondrous  truths  outdone  ; 
Here  pure  Eusebia  keeps  her  holy  seat, 

And  Themis  smiles  from  Heaven  on  this  retreat ; 
Our  chaster  Graces  own  refin’d  desires, 

And  all  our  Muses  burn  with  vestal  fires  ; 

Whilst  guardian-angels  our  Apollos  stand, 
.Scattering  rich  favours  with  a bounteous  hand, 
To  bless  the  happy  air  and  sanctify  the  land. 

O pleasing  shades  ! O ever-green  retreats  ! 

Ye  learned  grottoes  ! and  ye  sacred  seats  ! 

12 


178 


THE  POEMS  OF  TICKELL. 


Never  may  you  politer  arts  refuse, 

But  entertain  in  peace  the  bashful  Muse ! 

So  may  you  be  kind  Heaven’s  distinguish’d  care, 
And  may  your  fame  be  lasting,  as  ’tis  fair  ! 

Let  greater  Bards  on  fam’d  Parnassus  dream, 

Or  taste  th’  inspir’d  Heliconian  stream  ; 

Yet,  whilst  our  Oxford  is  the  bless’d  abode 
Of  every  Muse,  and  every  tuneful  god, 

Parnassus  owns  its  honours  far  outdone, 

And  Isis  boasts  more  Bards  than  Helicon. 

A thousand  blessings  I to  Oxford  owe, 

But  you,  my  Lord,  th’  inspiring  Muse  bestow ; 
Grac’d  with  your  name  th’  unpolish’d  poem  shines, 
You  guard  its  faults,  and  consecrate  the  lines, 

O might  you  here  meet  my  desiring  eyes, 

My  drooping  song  to  nobler  heights  would  rise : 
Or  might  I come  to  breathe  your  northern  air, 
Yet  should  I find  an  equal  pleasure  there  ; 

Your  presence  would  the  harsher  climate  soothe, 
Hush  every  wind,  and  every  mountain  smooth ; 
Would  bid  the  groves  in  springing  pomp  arise, 
And  open  charming  vistas  to  the  eyes ; 

Would  make  my  trifling  verse  be  heard  around, 
And  sportive  Echo  play  the  empty  sound  : 

With  you  I should  a better  Phoebus  find, 

And  own  in  you  alone  the  charms  of  Oxford  join’d. 


THE  END. 


